K  AND  NEWS 

Opmwo  tJ»« 


EROS  AND   ANTEBOS. 


EROS   AND  ANTEBOS; 


OB, 


BY 

JUDITH    CANUTE. 


NEW  YORK: 
RUDD     &     CARLETON, 

310    BROADWAY. 

1857. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857,  by 
E.  H.  BUTLER  A  CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for 
the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


PRWTKD  By  R.  CRAIOH11D 

Barton  Buifmng, 

83,  and   s5   Centre    Strei 


DEDICATION. 


To  MT  FATHER:— 

IN  the  enthusiasm  of  composition  (when  these  pages  seemed 
more  worthy  than  they  now  do),  I  had  resolved  to  offer  them  to 
you.  But,  under  the  cool  review  just  given  them,  their  merits 
have  strangely  paled — their  faults  grown  sadly  palpable ;  and  I 
find  myself  writing  a  letter  of  deprecation,  rather  than  dedication  1 

The  eye  of  affection  is  quick  to  detect  a  blemish,  where  it  desires 
perfection ;  and  you,  my  most  partial  critic,  may  be  the  least 
merciful.  If  I  have  failed  to  satisfy  your  wishes  as  an  author, 
forget  that  I  am  such,  and  think  of  me  only  as  "a  daughter.  I 
hope,  that,  however  much  I  may  deserve  correction  in  the  one 
capacity,  my  loyal  impulses,  and  instincts,  have  preserved  me 
from  error  in  the  other. 

I  can  only  add,  if  there  be  anything  in  this  little  book  which 
gives  you  pleasure,  accept  it  as  a  tribute  of  gratitude  for  care,  and 
culture,  bestowed  upon 

YOUR  DAUGHTER. 


PREFACE. 


CERTAIN  fanciful,  and  unreal,  visitors  naving  intruded 
upon  occasional  hours  of  solitude,  with  a  persistence 
which  defies  all  efforts  for  relief,  I  have  been  con- 
strained to  give  them  form  and  permanence,  and  send 
them  trooping  forth,  commissioned  to  invade  other 
sanctuaries,  to  importune  other  minds.  Engaged  upon 
a  wider  field  of  action,  they  return  no  more  ;  and  peace 
may  have  been  earned,  unless,  indeed,  a  "swarm  more 
hungry"  succeeds  them. 

I  can  make  no  other  apology  for  offering  the  public 
this  crude  result,  of  interludes  of  loneliness,  and  leisure. 

If,  in  the  roar  of  more  stirring  scenes  of  the  life  drama 

(7) 


Vili  PREFACE. 

appointed  me,  I  have  sometimes  lost  the  tones  of  those 
inner  voices,  and  given  but  faint  and  feeble  echoes  to 
the  world,  my  punishment  must  DC  in  the  knowledge 
that  these  pages  will  fail  to  afford  a  pleasure  to  the 
reader,  as  deep  and  pure  as  that  which  they  yielded 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
THE  EYRIE Page  13 

CHAPTER  II. 
THE  WALSINGHAMS 17 

CHAPTER  III. 
A  LETTER 26 

CHAPTER  IV. 

MRS.  GREY 36 

• 

CHAPTER  V. 
CRUEL  is  KIND       43 

CHAPTER  VI. 

AN  AMICABLE  TRIO ; 48 

CHAPTER  VII. 
ENTERTAINS  ANGELS  UNAWARES         54 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
EYRIE  LIFE       61 

(9) 

• 


X  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IX. 
PRATTLE 70 

CHAPTER  X. 
CHILDISH 76 

CHAPTER  XI. 

IIOFDENISH    .  82 


CHAPTER  XII. 
A  LOAN  RECALLED 91 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
CHANGE 98 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
NEWS       102 

CHAPTER  XV. 
RETURW 106 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
THE  JOURNEY 119 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
TETE-A-TETE 132 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
CHANGES 137 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
HOME 145 

CHAPTER  XX. 
AN  ARRIVAL 150 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  NONSENSE  OF  YOUTH 159 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

HINTS  AT  HOW  THE  JOUNG  GENTLEMEN  ENJOYED  THEIR  VACA- 
TION       .       .      .      .- 168 


CONTENTS.  XI 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

IN  WHICH  THE  YOUNG  PEOPLE  BECOME  BETTER  ACQUAINTED   .     174 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

IN  WHICH  THE  READER  BECOMES  BETTER  ACQUAINTED  WITH 
WALSINGHAM 180 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
SUNDRIES 188 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
ISOLATED 193 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
A  GOOSE-QUILL  SHAFT  DOUBLE-BARBED 206 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
DISQUIET       .     .  • 218 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
A  SURPRISE       222 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
CONTINUED  ARRIVALS 229 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 
SUSPICIONS  OF  TREACHERY 239 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 
RAGE  AND  HATE 249 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
JEALOUSY  OF  YOUTH 254 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
REFLECTION  AND  REVELATION       265 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
JEALOUSY  OF  MANHOOD 270 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
REMORSE       .    278 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
UNCERTAINTY 291 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
EXPLANATIONS 298 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  ONE  WHOM  WE  HATE  MET  BEFORE      .     .    205 

CHAPTER  XL. 
REVELATIONS 310 

CHAPTER  XLI. 
LOST    .     .     • 320 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE  LOYE  OF  MANHOOD 328 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 
THE  LOVE  OF  YOUTH       336 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

SHOWS  now  THE  DEVIL  SEEKS  TO  ESTABLISH  HIS  DOMINION  IN 
THE  HEART  THAT  INCLINES  TOWARD  HIM  BUT  A  HAIR'S- 

BREADTH .      344 

CHAPTER  XLV. 
A  MAIDEN'S  MUSINGS 348 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 
VIOLA  WON 352 

CHAPTER  XLVII. 
CONCLUSION       357 


EEOS   AND   A-NTEBOS. 


CHAPTEK    I. 

THE  EYRIE. 

"  In  all  creation  did  I  stand  alone, 
Still  to  the  rocks  my  dreams  a  soul  should  find, 
Mine  arms  should  wreath  themselves  around  the  stone, 
My  grief  should  feel  a  listener  in  the  -wind ; 
My  joy — its  echo  in  the  caves  should  be! 
Fool,  if  ye  will — Fool,  for  sweet  sympathy !" 

Translation  from  Schiller. 

THERE  is  a  spot  in  Pennsylvania's  wide-spread  landscape 
that  deeply  impressed  my  childish  heart,  and  occasionally 
haunts  my  maturer  memory  with  its  romantic  beauty.  I  have 
dwelt  much  upon  it  in  thought,  and  drawn  large  draughts 
therefrom  in  hours  of  silence  and  solitude,  until  the  contem- 
plation has  engendered  a  feeling  of  proprietorship  in  this 
domain  of  loveliness,  which  nature  has  bestowed  upon  her 
children.  Here  have  I  installed  my  Fancy,  saying,  "  Be  thou 
2  (13) 


14  EROS     AND     ANTEROS. 

heir.  Go  thou  in  and  jossess!  Let  tliy  creations  multiply 
and  people  this  wide  domain,  unchecked  by  mossy  landmarks, 
uncontrolled  by  musty  title  papers,  and  uureproved  by  ancient 
ownerships." 

In  older  days  and  other  climes,  the  elfin  fays  danced  gayly 
on  the  greensward,  or  trooped  through  moonlit  wood,  with 
right  to  "vert"  unquestioned  by  the  grim  Gothic  owners. 
Perchance  the  modern  lords  of  the  soil  may  admit  my^Fancy 
to  this  unreal  partnership,  with  a  like  courtesy,  smiling  indul- 
gently, as  they  recognise  the  appropriation  of  their  fair  acres 
by  the  squattership  of  a  vagrant  mind.  Fancy  is  a  sprite  that 
flits  unseen,  leaving  behind  no  superstitious  horrors  to  haunt 
the  ground  she  visits.  She  is  a  light-footed  Ariel,  making  no 
print  in  fairy  rings,  to  tell  where  she  hath  held  high  revel ! 
Lo  !  she  spreadeth  her  wing  and  taketh  flight  to  the  Susque- 
hanna. 

Oh,  Susquehanna,  beautiful  and  beloved !  Thou  Helicon 
of  my  soul !  Would  that  I  might  stand  once  more  upon  thy 
banks,  and  draw  from  thy  fair  waters  their  unfailing  inspira- 
tion !  That  I  might  refresh  my  heart  with  one  look  upon  thy 
loveliness,  ere  I  essay  to  portray  it.  Memory  looketh  back 
upon  thee  through  a  dim  mist  of  tears.  Aerial  Fancy  floateth 
upon  thy  bosom,  and  she  shall  be  the  prompter. 

Look  away  then  to  the  north,  oh  Memory !  Meet,  with 
clearer  eye,  the  expanse  of  translucent  waters,  calmly  sweep- 
ing on  its  course  by  hill  and  plain,  forest  and  town.  Turn  ye 
westward,  and  greet  another  flood  in  its  coming,  rapidly  rush- 
ing, like  an  impetuous  bridegroom  to  meet  the  bride.  Look, 


THE    EYRIE.  15 

thou  upon  their  union,  as,  with  commingled  tides,  two  mighty 
rivers  roll  their  tribute  to  the  eastern  ocean.  The  bold  bluff 
of  the  ancient  mountain  looks  down  upon  them  with  a  bless- 
ing— the  sinking  sun  is  translated  in  a  chariot  of  fire,  and, 
like  the  departing  prophet,  casts  his  mantle  upon  them,  and 
the  united  floods  glow  with  golden  glory.  The  evening  winds 
sing  of  peace,  and  the  awakened  leaves  of  the  forest,  like  a 
thousand  whispering  tongues,  echo  peace.  One  by  one,  the 
stars  step  forth  upon  the  porticoes  of  heaven,  proclaiming,  "We 
stand  upon  the  threshold  of  eternal  peace :"  and  peace  enfolds 
thee  with  a  great  calm,  oh  turbulent  world ! 

The  mountain  bluff,  like  an  ancient  sybarite,  laves  his 
luxurious  feet  in  the  bright  waters.  The  clouds  of  heaven, 
whereon  God's  mystic  truths  are  written,  he  binds  as  phylac- 
teries upon  his  brow.  High  above  the  river  towers  his  rocky 
head,  crowned  with  old  oaks  and  pines,  that  have  rocked  and 
roared  in  the  winds  of  many  winters.  On  the  edge  of  the 
precipice,  in  wild  companionship  with  hoary  rocks  and  pri- 
meval forest  trees,  with  its  bold  roof  sharply  defined  against 
the  sky,  and  a  coronet  of  stars  crowning  its  gable,  stands  a 
human  dwelling. 

Truly  it  is  built  upon  a  rock !  Though  the  spirit  of  peace 
be  abroad  to-night,  it  is  not  always  thus;  memory  recalls  when 
the  powers  of  darkness  and  storm  seemed  leagued  for  its 
destruction.  When  the  winds  blew  around  the  presumptuous 
tenement  and  the  waves  beat  upon  the  foot  of  its  precipitous 
foundation,  yet  it  fell  not. 

To  this  wild  embodiment  of  a  wild  thought,  I  hr.ve  given 


16  EROS    AND    ANTER08. 

the  name  of  "The  Eyrie,"  although  it  is  widely  known  by 
another  epithet,  expressive  of  contempt  for  the  building  and 
its  builder.  When  there  is  aught  of  the  poetical,  the  beautiful, 
or  the  good,  above  the  comprehension  of  man,  he  complacently 
recompenses  himself  by  despising  it.  All  things  in  heaven 
or  earth,  beyond  the  range  of  his  self-sufficient  philosophy, 
receive  his  contempt.  Therefore  is  it  that  the  name  of  that 
earnest  soul,  who  made  his  abode  in  this  mountain  fastness, 
and  to  whom  nature  revealed  beauties  hidden  from  dull  eyes, 
and  insensate  hearts,  is  coupled  vn^a.  folly. 

The  summer  evening  deepens  and  darkens  around  the  Eyrie, 
and  when  lights  kindle  in  the  casements  of  this  house  built 
against  the  heavens,  it  seems  to  the  fisherman's  daughter,  as 
she  looks  up  from  her  cabin  on  the  shore,  that  new  stars  are 
set  in  the  firmament. 

Could  the  child  look  in  upon  the  dark  sad  countenance  of 
an  eagle  nature  brooding  there,  she  would  feel  that  this  dwell- 
ing upon  the  mountain  top  is  not,  as  she  has  believed,  nearer 
heaven  than  the  lowlier  abodes  of  men. 


THE    WALSINQHAMS.  17 


\ 

CHAPTER  II. 


THE    WALSINGHAMS. 


44  Oh  my  cousin,  shallow  hearted ;  oh  my  Amy,  mine  no  more ; 
Oh  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland;  oh  the  barren,  barren  shore!" 

TENNYSON. 
\ 
\ 

THANK  the  Fates,  or  Muses,  or  any  other  occult  Power  to 
whom  acknowledgments  may  be  due,  our  hero  is  a  handsome 
man !  Tall,  well  formed,  and  graceful  in  figure,  he  stood  by 
the  library  window.  Although  young,  his  countenance,  natu- 
rally dark,  had  grown  salbw  with  confinement  and  study;  but 
his  hair,  undimmed  by  either,  clustered  in  thick  masses  of 
short  dusky  curls  about  hi&  broad  brow.  An  expression  of 
sadness,  which  sometimes  deepened  into  suffering,  played  about 
a  mouth  of  feminine  delicacy \  and  his  deep  dark  serious  eyes 
looked  melancholy  meditations\ 

Nature  meant  Arthur  Walsin^ham  for  a  poet  and  a  scholar. 
Circumstances  had  made  him  a  dreamy  recluse  j  and,  in  dreamy 
mood,  he  stood  by  the  library  window,  looking  out  into  the 
peaceful  summer  night. 

» 


18  EROS    AND    ANTERO8. 

How  long  it  might  have  held  him  in  its  thrall,  this  cironicle 
recordeth  not.  A  clatter  of  heavy  boots,  and  the  roll  of 
a  deep  bass  voice,  rung  out,  startling  the  Eyrie  echoes. 
The  door  swung  open,  and  a  tall  man,  with  sailor  stride, 
entered.  Seizing  the  student's  hands,  he  shook  them  with 
an  affectionate  energy  that  threatened  annihilation,  exclaim- 
ing— 

"  So,  ho  !  Arthur !  This  is  your  roost !  By  George,  one 
needs  wings  to  reach  it — wings  of  the  wicd,  eh !  Didn't 
think  I  was  this  side  the  sea,  did  you  ?" 

"Indeed,  I  did  not,"  responded  Arthur  Walsingham, 
warmly.  "But  you  are  thrice  welcome,  Ben.  It  warms  a 
man's  heart  to  look  upon  the  face  of  kindred;"  and  he  took 
the  strong  right  hand  between  his  own,  pressing  it  with  a 
fervour  that  brought  tears  of  pain,  or  tenderness,  to  his 
visiter's  eyes. 

"  Mrs.  Grey,"  said  Walsingham,  addressing  a  female  who 
hovered  curiously  about  the  open  door;  "Mrs.  Grey,  here  is 
my  brother,  just  returned  from  sea;  what  can  we  do  to  make 
him  comfortable?" 

"  Cook  him  a  hot  supper  of  frech  things,  I  s'pose,  sir,"  sug- 
gested Mrs.  Grey,  retiring  to  exercise  her  culinary  accomplish- 
ments in  behalf  of  the  stranger, 

This  lady  deemed  expedition  necessary  in  preparing  a  meal 
for  one  who  had  been  so  long  at  sea;  and  Captain  Walnngbam 
soon  found  himself  discussing  the  dainties  of  his  brother's 
board,  with  a  sailor's  relish. 

After  the  traveller  had  partaken  of  the  refreshments  pro- 


THE    WALSINGHAMS."  19 

vided  by  the  bountiful  hand  of  Mrs.  Grey,  the  brothers 
enjoyed  one  of  those  communings  so  delightful  to  friends  long 
separated.  Reminiscences  of  boyhood,  narratives  of  experi- 
ences, and  mutual  inquiry,  beguiled  the  evening. 

"  And  why  is  it,  Arthur,"  said  the  Captain,  as  he  toyed 
with  the  extinguisher  of  his  bed-room  light;  "why  is  it  that 
you  live  in  this  crow's  nest,  like  a  hermit,  without  friend,  or 
wife,  chick,  or  child  ? — chained  to  a  rock,  as  it  were,  with 
bachelorhood  preying  upon  your  vitals  !  You  see,  I  remember 
the  classics.  Why,  man  !  you  owe  me  a  sister-in-law  by  this 
time." 

"  I  deny  the  debt !"  retorted  Walsingham,  with  a  smile. 
"  You  owe  me,  rather." 

"  Alas,  for  the  family  of  Walsingham!"  groaned  the  Cap- 
tain. ".I  fear  celibacy  will  be  the  extinction  of  it." 

"  It  will  prove  the  extinction  of  any  family,  if  persisted  in. 
But  you,  Ben,  are  my  senior.  By  your  honest,  broad  shoulders 
should  the  honours  of  our  family  be  upheld ;  and  with  you, 
rests  the  responsibility  of  setting  a  respectable  Benedictine 
example  to  your  junior." 

"  I  might  have  done  so,  some  years  ago,"  quoth  the  Captain, 
with  an  air  of  amused  perplexity ;  "  but  it  is  too  late,  now. 
What  would  I  do  with  a  wife,  and  my  habits  ?  and,  oh  Jupi- 
ter !  what  would  a  wife  do  with  me  and  my  habits  together?" 
and,  by  way  of  illustration,  he  ejected  the  national  weed  upon 
the  carpet,  and  deposited  his  booted  heels  beside  the  giran- 
doles on  the  mantelpiece.  "  Ask  Mrs.  White,  Brown — what's 
the  colour  of  her  name  ?  She  who  made  me  wipe  my  boots 


20  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

before  I  embraced  my  brother  ?  Why,  if  I  took  the  liberty 
of  punching  the  fire  upon  the  sacred  hearth  of  home,  the  mate 
would  feel  called  upon  to  sweep  up  the  dear  domestic  ashes. 
We  should  fence  with  poker  and  broom — I  know  we  should ! 
Pshaw,  I'm  not-placid !  I  should  explode  like  a  falconet  and 
blow  up  the  ship.  If  I  ever  marry,  the  dust-brush  will  haunt 
me  like  an  avenging  angel !" 

Walsingham  laughed  at  the  Captain's  warmth;  and  then, 
like  a  grateful  and  appreciative  dog  as  he  was,  expatiated  upon 
the  virtues  of  women. 

"I  never  affected  women,  you  know,"  said  Captain  Wal- 
singham; "but  you,  Arthur,  were  a  true  chevalier  aux  dames. 
I  thought,  of  a  certainty,  that  before  I  returned,  you  would 
strike  colours  under  the  fire  of  fine  eyes,  or  find  yourself 
ensnared  by  flowing  ringlets,  or  some  other  mischievously 
feminine  man-trap." 

"My  escape  is  miraculous,  certainly,  and  cannot  be'attri- 
buted  to  any  merit  of  my  own,"  answered  Walsingham,  dryly. 

Captain  Ben  delivered  a  significant  "  Umph."  After  some 
rummaging  in  a  certain  lumber-room  in  his  cranium,  pertain- 
ing to  a  miserly  hoarder  of  shreds  and  patches  of  circumstances, 
yclept  memory,  he  drew  forth  to  mental  vision  the  picture  of 
a  fair-faced  cousin,  with  golden  ringlets  and  dove  eyes,  and  in 
the  background,  like  a  haunting  shadow,  flitted  the  boyhood 
of  Arthur  Walsingham. 

"  What  ever  became  of  Viola  ?"  he  asked,  abruptly 

Walsingham  started  as  if  some  one  had  struck  him,  but 
answered,  quietly, 


THE    WALSINGHAMS.  21 

"  She  married." 

"  And  you  got  the  property,  and  it  ruined  you?" 

Walsingham's  face  grew  a  shade  paler,  and  a  thought  more 
serious,  as  he  answered — 

"  It  did,  indeed." 

"I  knew  no  good  would  come  of  it,  when  our  queer  old 
uncle  conceived  the  idea  of  uniting  the  remote  branches  of  the 
family  in  you  and  Viola,  and  left  his  fortune  between  you.  He 
thought  it  a  pretty  plan;  but,  to  my  mind,  families  are  better 
separated  than  united.  That  is  a  morbid  pride  which  delights 
in  perpetuating  family  failings.  So,  our  pretty  kinswoman 
grew  weary  of  her  boy  lover,  and  forfeited  her  share  of  the 
inheritance  for  a  bearded  spouse ;  while  you,  having  plenty  of 
money,  fold  your  talents  in  a  napkin,  and  intend  to  doze 
away  the  energies  of  early  manhood  at  your  ease.  That's  the 
story,  is  it?" 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Walsingham,  in  his  low,  quiet  voice. 
"  You  have  omitted  an  important  feature.  I  loved  her,  and 
she  broke  my  heart." 

"Pshaw!"  said  the  Captain,  with  an  emphasis  which 
imparted  to  that  innocent  expletive  all  the  force  of  an  oath. 
"  You  were  but  a  boy,  and  she  a  woman,  you  ninny !" 

"With  all  the  enthusiasm  of  youth  I  loved  herj  and  when 
she  was  lost  to  me,  the  world  held  nothing  worth  a  struggle." 

Withdrawing  his  feet  from  their  mantel  perch,  the  Captaiu 
took  two  or  three  rapid  turns  across  the  room;  then,  paus-inir 
before  his  brother,  exclaimed — 

"And  is  it  because  her  paltry  doll's  face  looks  its  nothings 


*J2  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

in  another  man's  home,  that  the  sun  cannot  shine  upon  yours? 
Ts  it  because  a  boyish  fancy  was  thwarted,  that  alRhe  gifts  of 
nature  and  fortune  are  wasted  ?  Oh,  heavens !  that  a  piece 
of  clay  like  that  should  mar  the  making  of  such  a  man  !" 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  exclaimed  Walsingham. 

"I  mean  this,"  answered  the  Captain.  "When  we  parted, 
you  stood  on  the  verge  of  manhood,  crowned  with  rare  gifts, 
and  full  of  promise.  On  my  return,  I  looked  to  find  you  fill- 
ing a  wide  circle — honoured  among  men — eminent  in  some 
way — distinguished  for  some  thing — running  a  race  with  the 
world,  and  distancing  your  competitors.  How  is  it  ?  You 
have  lain  idly  by,  while  human  tortoises  have  toiled  their  way 
to  distinctions,  you  might  have  reached  with  half  the  effort." 

"They  presented  allurements  to  the  tortoises,  I  suppose; 
to  me  they  did  not." 

"  Look  at  your  class-mates,"  continued  the  Captain,  not 
heeding  this  reply ;  "  Dick  Jones,  who  was  for  ever  snivelling 
over  Latin  exercises,  is  a  famour  poet;  Tom  Hawkins,  whose 
problems  were  never  solved,  sits  in  the  national  councils; 
while  you,  the  genius  of  the  class,  sit  sighing  your  life  away, 
because  a  whimsical  girl  did  not  take  a  fancy  to  your  smooth 
chin." 

All  this  was  not  precisely  pleasant  to  Walsingham,  touching, 
as  it  did,  the  sorest  spot  of  a  sensitive  heart ;  but  he  answered, 
with  quiet  self-control, 

"You  speak  in  a  tone  of  reproach,  Ben,  as  though  I 
wronged  you.  Why  should  you  feel  aggrieved  because  I 
consult  my  vagalond  inclinations?" 


THE    WALSING  HAMS.  23 

"  No  man  has  a  right  to  be  a  vagabond,  to  whom  God  h^g 
given  capacities  for  something  better !     You  do  wrong  me, 
when  you  rob  me  of  my  hopes  in  you.     You  wrong  the  world, 
when  you  withhold  the  services  which  you  are  qualified  to 
render;  and  you  wrong — " 

"Spare  me  the  enumeration  of  rny  sins,  dear  Ben,  and 
listen  to  me.  Curb  your  wrath,  and  bridle  your  rampant 
ambition.  I  do  not  quarrel  with  you,  because  you  have  not 
taken  a  fleet,  or  reproach  you,  if  you  are  not  a  commodore.  If 
I  possess  great  gifts,  as  you  say,  in  heaven's  name  love  me  for 
them,  and  not  for  any  notoriety  they  might  achieve.  Be  proud 
of  my  merits,  though  no  man  save  yourself  perceives  them. 
Are  we  not  alike  foolish?  I,  because  I  hoped  for  happiness  j 
you,  because  you  covet  distinction  ?  Nay,  I  am  the  wiser  of 
the  two ;  for,  my  bubble  having  burst,  I  am  not  to  be  deluded 
into  the  pursuit  of  yours." 

"Well,  it's  your  own  business,"  said  the  Captain,  taking 
his  candle;  "forgive  me  for  having  meddled  with  it;  and 
now,  good-night." 

"  Good-night !" 

"  Hang  it,"  muttered  the  Captain,  as  the  door  closed 
between  them;  "who  would  suppose  that  after  half  a  dozen 
years  of  separation,  we  should  fall  so  naturally  into  an  old- 
fashioned,  brotherly  quarrel !" 

Walsingharn  returned  to  the  library,  and  seating  himself, 
with  head  upon  his  hand,  communed  with  the  phantoms  of 
the  past,  which  this  conversation  had  conjured  from  their 
hiding-places.  His  own  earnest,  enthusiastic  boyhood,  as  the 


24  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

Captain  had  depicted  it,  full  of  hope  and  promise.  The 
"being  beauteous,"  who  played  upon  his  heart  as  on  a 
harp,  awakening  all  its  deepest,  wildest  melodies.  The  St. 
Cecilia  of  his  soul !  Ah,  how  the  glad  music  of  young  life 
rang  out,  beneath  her  angelic  touch,  and  rosy  hours  danced 
gayly  to  the  measure  that  told  of  hope  and  love ;  then,  with 
one  rude  sweep,  she  shivered  those  tremulous  heartstrings, 
and  left  them  silent  and  joyless  for  ever ! 

He  thought  of  her  beautiful  face,  shading  its  light  and  love 
in  some  far  off  home  which  he  might  never  visit ;  of  her  bene- 
ficent hand,  girding  with  blessings  the  only  man  he  had  ever 
hated.  He  knew  him  not,  but  was  he  not  the  foul  fiend  who 
stood  between  him  and  Paradise?  He  thought  of  her  again, 
not  with  the  garlands  of  youth  upon  her  brow,  as  he  had  last 
beheld  her,  but  in  the  maturity  of  glorious  womanhood, 

"  Begirt  with  growing  infancy — 
Daughters  and  sons  of  beauty!" 

Wife — mother — children !  all  should  have  been  his  !  Should 
have  filled  his  yearning  heart  and  gladdened  his  desolate  home. 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  brow;  the  vision  vanished, 
and  the  gloomy  midnight  solitude  oppressed  him.  Unlocking 
his  escritoire  he  drew  thence  a  packet  of  letters  (hers),  and 
read  them  for  companionship.  Most  ghostly  company  !  How 
the  fond  words  mocked  his  disappointed  heart !  Here  sat  he, 
wronged,  forsaken,  reading  promises  of  unfailing  truth  and 
never-ending  devotion,  warm  on  the  page  as  when  the  fair 
hand  first  traced  them 


THEWALSINGHAMS.  25 

Then  came  the  last,  confessing  that  another  had  beguiled 
her  heart,  and  bidding  him  forget  her. 

Forget  her !  Not  a  day  in  all  his  after  life  had  he  forgotten 
to  pray  for  her,  though  she  had  well  nigh  wrecked  him ! 

"  This  was  the  last/'  he  said  with  a  sigh,  as,  refolding  it,  he 
restored  the  packet  to  its  place  and  locked  the  escritoire. 
"  This  was  the  last." 

But  it  was  not  the  last.  One  more  \*as  even  now  travelling 
to  his  hand,  destined  to  be  a  link  uniting  all  that  had  passed 
with  much  that  was  to  come 


26  EROS    AND    AN7TER08 


CHAPTER    III 


WALSINGHAM,  whose  nervous  excitement  banished  sleep 
that  night,  fell,  toward  morning,  into  an  uneasy  slumber ;  but 
the  Captain  was  awake  betimes,  and  ready  to  reconnoitre. 
Dressing  himself  with  alacrity,  he  sallied  forth  to  spy  out  the 
land. 

He  remembered  that  the  night  before  he  had  approached 
the  house  by  a  bridle  road,  winding  up  the  back  of  the  hill, 
which  sloped  away  to  the  south.  He,  therefore,  upon  leaving 
the  piazza,  walked  in  an  opposite  direction.  A  few  steps 
brought  him  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  where  a  scene  of 
wonderful  beauty  lay  before  him*  Far  beneath,  laving  the 
base  of  the  pile  of  rock  on  which  he  stood,  swept  the  Sus- 
quehanna.  From  low  ridges  of  hills,  rolling  northward,  the 
waters  of  the  "  North  River"  came  dancing  in  the  morning 
light,  and  the  two  blended  streams  spread  out  a  mile  in  width 
toward  the  east.  Uprose  the  sun  from  out  this  placid  expanse 
of  waters,  and,  shaking  the  mists  from  his  mane,  touched  with 


A    LETTER.  27 

roseate  glow  meadow  and  forest,  plain  and  hill !  Far  up  the 
valley  of  the  North  River,  far  up  the  valley  of  the  west,  the 
heavy  mists  gathered  in  silvery  wreaths,  and  trooped  away, 
like  shadows  of  the  night  that  had  outstayed  their  time.  Be- 
neath his  feet  their  white  wings  fluttered,  and  he  felt  as  one 
standing  upon  the  clouds ! 

"Jupiter!"  ejaculated  the  Captain,  "could  Olympus  itself 
afford  a  finer  look-out !" 

The  father  of  gods  and  men,  thus  apostrophized,  seemed  to 
assure  the  Captain  that  his  conjecture  was  correct,  for  he 
nodded  to  himself  as  though  his  expressed  opinion  was  receiv- 
ing occult,  as  well  as  ocular  confirmation. 

The  Captain  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  great  liberties  with 
the  gods  of  heathendom,  but  he  excused  himself,  saying  he 
had  been  hand  and  glove  with  them  at  college.  It  will  be 
seen  he  was  one  of  those  impetuously  energetic  men,  who  find 
ordinary  language  too  weak  for  their  strong  necessities. 

Such  men  need  expletives.  Captain  Ben  had  an  uncom- 
fortable horror  of  swearing  Christian  oaths  (as  the  honest  fel- 
low called  them),  having  been  early  taught  by  a  pious  mother, 
that  "  God  will  not  hold  him  guiltless  who  taketh  his  name  in 
vain."  But  with  all  his  habitual  reverence,  he  wasted  none 
upon  the  gods  of  heathenesse.  The  pagan  deities,  he  averred, 
were  only  fit  to  swear  by. 

Captain  Ben  and  his  brother,  as  widely  unlike  as  men  with 
the  same  blood  in  their  veins  could  possibly  be,  had  been 
subjected  to  the  same  home  training,  and  the  same  mental 
discipline.  They  had  been  carefully  reared  children,  and 


28  EEOS    AND    ANTEROS. 

carefully  educated  youths,  but  nature  asserted  herself  para- 
inouat  in  each.  They  were  stocks  that  might  be  pruned  and 
trained,  but  would,  nevertheless,  yield  each  its  own  peculiar 
fruit. ' 

The  Captain's  motto  was  that  of  Demosthenes — "  Action — 
action — ACTION  !"  but  he  used  it  in  a  more  comprehensive 
sense  than  the  olden  orator  ever  dreamed  of.  On  leaving 
school  he  threw  aside  his  books,  and  took  to  the  sea  as  natu- 
rally as  a  duckling  to  water.  There  was  great  consternation 
in  the  Walsingham  family  on  this  occasion ;  they  feared  their 
care  had  been  wasted  upon  this  restless  scion  of  their  quiet 
race.  They  extended,  however,  a  helping  hand,  aiding  the 
boy  to  rise  in  the  pursuit  he  had  chosen,  and  found,  in  time, 
that  although  education  had  failed  to  mould,  it  had  greatly 
modified.  The  boisterous  embracer  of  a  rude  profession,  com- 
bined in  his  character  the  elements  of  a  Christian,  a  gentle- 
man, and  a  scholar,  thanks  to  parents  and  professors.  Pure  in 
principle,  honourable  and  intelligent,  a  finer  fellow  never 
floated ! 

If  the  Captain  was  active,  Arthur  was  meditative.  The 
one  was  an  energetic  thinker ;  the  other  a  decisive  performer. 
They  were  both  men  of  strong  natures,  strong  feelings,  and 
strong  passions,  but  the  one  had  attained  a  quiet  self-mastery, 
where  the  other  had  grown  violently  demonstrative.  Natural 
results  of  their  separate  habits  of  thinking  and  acting. 

Had  Arthur  Walsingham  been  happy  in  his  early  attach- 
ment, he  would  have  been  strong  for  the  battle  of  life.  Love 


A    LETTER.  29 

and  ambition  with  entwined  hands  would  have  lifted  him  up 
to  greatness ;  or  had  his  love  held  him  with  a  feebler  thrall, 
the  allurements  of  the  world  would  hare  consoled  its  disap- 
pointment. It  was  the  power  of  his  unsatisfied  passion  that 
had  prostrated  him  j  and,  although  the  fire  had  mouldered  to 
ashes  long  ago,  leaving  his  bosom  cold,  no  spark  of  ambition 
rekindled  or  revivified  the  ruin.  His  energies  were  scathed. 
The  world  had  denied  him  that  which  his  heart  most  coveted, 
happiness, — and  he  sought  not  the  lesser  boon  of  distinction. 
Therefore  was  it  that  he  turned  to  the  seclusion  and  com- 
panionship of  nature — 

"  That  friend, 
Who  never  did  betray  the  heart  that  loved  her." 

Her  truths  and  mysteries  peopled  his  solitude.  Knowledge 
and  science  revealed  their  secrets  to  him;  and,  in  converse 
with  liigh  and  hidden  things,  the  wildly  yearning  heart  of 
the  recluse  grew  calm.  Of  these  serene  teachers  he  learned 
content. 

But  the  appearance  of  his  brother,  associated  as  he  was  with 
the  eventful  era  of  his  history — their  conversation  upon  things 
which  he  had  put  far  from  him — the  letters — these  exhumed 
the  past.  His  buried  hopes  arose  again  to  haunt  him. 

"  This  is  a  fine  country,"  said  the  Captain,  as  his  glowing 
morning  face  confronted  his  brother's  pale  one,  at  the  break- 
fast table ;  "  but  a  spell  of  silence  broods  over  it.  I  have  riot 
heard  a  sound  save  the  breakfast  bell.  I  would  live  upon  the 


30  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

seashore,  where  I  could  hear  the  eternal  roar  of  ocean.  Do 
you  know,  I  never  hear  the  sea  without  fancying  it  proclaim- 
ing in  its  ceaseless  surge  the  words  of  that  grand  old  psalm  our 
mother  used  to  read, — "  The  sea  is  his,  and  he  made  it."  But 
it  is  only  when  the  old  monster  meets  his  boundaries  that  he 
rages  and  roars.  In  his  great  deeps  he  is  silent. 

"  By  George,  here  comes  a  post-bag !  I  would  as  soon  expect 
to  meet  one  upon  Chimborazo  I" 

The  Captain  now  addressed  himself  to  the  muffins,  while 
Walsingham  sipped  his  coffee,  and  looked  languidly  over  his 
letters. 

Why  did  he  suddenly  start  ?  Why  did  his  pale  face  mantle 
with  ruddy  glow?  Why  did  his  heart  beat  and  his  brain 
whirl  ? 

'Twas  a  small  and  delicately  folded  letter  which  he  held, 
with  a  few  faint  characters  upon  it.  Were  they  traced  in  the 
same  style  as  those  over  which  he  mused  last  night,  or  was  it 
fancy  ?  He  tore  open  the  envelope  and  read — 

"  I  have  been  nerved,  by  great  extremity,  to  write  to  you, 
who  are  the  only  friend  Providence  has  left  me.  I  call  you 
friend,  because  I  feel  that  wherever  you  are,  and  however  you 
may  be  situated,  you  are  such  to  me.  If  you  have  never  heard 
of  me  since  my  marriage,  you  may  be  interested  to  learn  that 
he,  who  tempted  me  to  wrong  you,  became  your  avenger.  Of 
his  faults  it  becomes  not  me,  who  have  erred  so  widely,  to 
speak — of  his  treatment  it  is  not  ny  intention  to  complain 


A    LETTER.  31 

We  were  not  happy  together,  and  separated.     In  efforts  to 
sustain  myself  and  child,  health  has  failed,  and  I  am  dying. 

"  That  fatal  elopement  estranged  my  kindred,  as  you  know. 
My  father  died  without  according  me  his  forgiveness,  and  my 
brothers  are  cruel  in  their  wrath.  You,  who  were  most 
wronged,  have  been  most  forgiving.  At  your  hands  I  have 
received  kindness,  and  to  you  I  appeal.  If  ever  I  was  aught 
to  you,  be  a  friend  to  my  poor  child  !  I  feel  that  I  am  pre- 
sumptuous where  I  should  be  most  humble,  but  maternal  agony 
is  my  excuse.  Oh,  Arthur,  you  too  are,  perhaps,  a  parent, 
and  can,  in  some  degree,  appreciate  a  mother's  anxiety  for 
her  soon  to  be  doubly  orphaned  child.  By  all  the  love  you 
bear  your  own  little  ones,  I  implore  you  be  a  friend  to  mine  ! 
Let  her  enjoy  the  companionship  of  your  children;  let  her 
mind  develop  under  your  influence,  and  it  may  be  that  God 
will  teach  her  to  compensate  your  care,  and  atone  for  the  faults 
of  her  mother." 

Another  paragraph,  containing  her  direction,  and  the  simple 
signature  of  Viola,  concluded  the  letter. 

Walsingham  was  excessively  shocked,  but  his  accustomed 
self-mastery  prevented  the  betrayal  of  his  emotions,  or  else  the 
Captain,  by  a  special  interposition  of  hot  muffins,  failed  to  per- 
ceive them.  That  jolly  gentleman,  having  whetted  his  appe- 
tite upon  the  morning  air,  devoted  himself  to  the  viands  before 
him,  with  an  exclusiveness  that  forbade  conversation,  and 
afforded  his  brother  an  opportunity  of  marshalling  his  tumultu- 
ous thoughts. 


32  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

Was  it  but  last  night  he  had  pictured  her  loving  and 
beloved  ?  Beautiful  and  happy  !  Could  she  really  be  deso- 
late and  dying — she  who,  to  the  eye  of  love,  had  seemed  im- 
mortal !  And  had  she  (there  was  a  sad  pleasure  in  the 
thought!)  learned  at  last  the  worth  of  the  heart  she  had 
slighted — had  she  turned  to  him  again  when  all  the  world  had 
failed  her,  and  rested  her  burdens  on  him  !  • 

He  opened  the  letter  and  re-read  it,  lingering  over  the  sig- 
nature Viola.  Could  that  name  stand  sponsor  for  the  humble 
heart-broken  words  preceding  it  ?  It  was  not  wont  to  follow 
in  such  a  train  !  Yet  it  was  delicately  traced,  as  it  had  been 
of  yore  to  many  a  gay  missive,  and  he  pressed  it  reverently, 
as  once  passionately,  to  his  lips,  and  vowed  he  would  not  fail 
her  in  her  extremity. 

His  heart  already  yearned  toward  the  child — a  little  child  ! 
What  a  novel  phenomenon  of  humanity  was  this — what  were 
its  wants  and  habits,  and  how  was  he  to  minister  to  them  ? 
He  would  receive  this  legacy  of  care,  and,  perhaps,  of  its  ne- 
cessities, the  child  would  be  his  teacher. 

As  his  thoughts  grew  calmer  he  concluded  that  it  would 
be  better  to  confide  the  matter  to  the  Captain,  and  consult  him 
upon  the  course  to  be  pursued  to  get  possession  of  his  little 
ward.  Just  then,  the  Captain,  having  appeased  the  lion  of 
appetite,  remarked — 

"  You're  a  jolly  fellow  for  a  mess  !  When  a  brother  comes 
to  breakfast  with  you,  after  six  years'  absence,  one  would  think 
you  would  have  something  to  say  to  him." 


A    LETTER.  33 

"'  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  him,  but  first  let  him  read 
this;"  and  he  handed  him  the  letter. 

The  Captain  read  to  the  end  without  comment  (a  remarka- 
ble piece  of  self- restraint;  for,  with  him,  to  think  was  to  speak), 
and  then  struck  his  clenched  hand  violently  upon  the  table. 
This  act  afforded  him  some  relief,  and  he  sat  with  lips  reso- 
lutely closed,  as  though  determined  to  say  nothing  which  he 
might  regret.  Walsingham  was  likewise  silent,  and  the  Cap- 
tain at  length  broke  forth  with — 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"  That  is  what  I  wish  you  to  advise." 

"  I  advise  !  By  Gog  and  Magog,  I  should  tell  her  she  has 
sown  the  wind,  and  may  reap  the  whirlwind  !  I  would  like- 
wise send  my  best  wishes  for  a  plentiful  harvest.  Appoint 
you  her  brat's  nurse,  indeed !"  and  the  Captain  discharged  a 
volley  of  heathen  deities. 

"  You  would  do  no  such  thing,  Ben  Walsingham.  You 
would  be  proud  of  me,  if  I  avenged  my  wrongs  upon  a 
dying  woman  and  helpless  child,  would  you  not?  Viola's 
sufferings  have  expiated  her  offences,  and  were  it  otherwise, 
'twould  shame  my  manhood  to  entertain  wrath  toward  the 
woman  I  once  regarded  with  tenderness.  To  the  appeal  of 
this  unhappy  lady  I  shall  promptly  respond,  and  you  will  ad- 
vise with  and  aid  me." 

The  Captain  was  mollified,  as  he  looked  upon  the  earnest 
countenance  of  Viola's  generous  advocate.  His  indignation 
gave  a  few  expiring  throes,  as  he  mentally  exclaimed,  "  What 
a  noble  nature  has  this  woman  slighted  !"  He  thought  of  hei', 


84  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"  As  one  whose  hand, 

Like  the  base  Judean's,  threw  a  pearl  away 
Richer  than  all  his  tribe." 

"  God  bless  my  mother's  boy !"  he  cried,  grasping  Walsing- 
ham's  hand. 

"  I  shall  go  to  her  immediately,  Ben." 

"  As  I  have  no  vocation  for  solitude,  in  the  crow's  nest,  I'll 
e'en  go  with  you,"  said  the  Captain,  recovering  from  his 
emotion. 

"Wonder  if  we  are  to  bring  the  baby  back  with  us?"  he 
added,  laughing.  "  Oh,  Mahomet !  what  a  nice  nursery  ap- 
pendage I  shall  be  !  If  it  was  a  monkey  frOin  India,  now,  or 
an  elephant  from  Siain,  I'd  be  just  the  man  for  the  emergency. 
But  a  miserable  young  human  !  The  most  stupidly  helpless 
of  all  created  things,  don't  ye  see?" 

Walsingham  saw,  but  too  plainly,  the  difficulties  of  the  case 
in  their  most  magnified  aspect,  poor  ignorant  bachelor  as 
he  was  j  but  hoped  that  as  they  belonged  to  the  same  species, 
they  should,  by  dint  of  sympathy,  instinct,  or  something  bet- 
ter, be  able  to  understand  the  requirements  of  their  mighty 
charge.  Seeking  Mrs.  Grey,  he  briefly  communicated  to  that 
important  functionary  that  he  had  been  summoned  to  attend 
the  death-bed  of  a  friend,  and  would  probably  return  with  a 
child,  for  the  comfort  of  which  he  desired  her  to  make  suita- 
ble provision. 

From  the  effect  of  this  astounding  announcement,  that  lady 
did  not  recover  until  her  master  had  made  good  his  retreat, 
thereby  escaping  the  volley  of  wonders  and  queries  that  bub 


A    LETTER.  85 

bled  in  delighted  effervescence  frcm  her  lips.  "  A  child  !  good- 
ness me  !  a  child  in  this  house !  That  will  be  like  folks ! 
Wonder  if  it's  a  boy  or  girl  ?  Girl,  I  hope,  like  my  poor  little 
Petsy.  How  old  did  he  say  ?  If  it's  a  baby,  I  ought  to  know  ! 
Sister's  child,  I  s'pose  !  No,  he  has  nary  sister.  Whose  ?"  and 
here  Mrs.  Grey's  tumultuous  reflections  wer.t  trooping  pell- 
mell  through  the  fog  of  conjecture. 


36  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

MRS.  GREY. 

MRS.  GREY,  most  courteous  reader !  She  comes  between 
us  and  the  sunshine  with  presence  as  genial.  May  her  benefi- 
cent shadow  amplify,  for  there  is  warmth  in  it. 

The  capacious  heart  in  Mrs.  Grey's  capacious  bosom  throbbed 
with  the  kindliest  impulses  of  feminine  humanity,  sending  a 
warm  tide  of  love,  and  sympathy,  circling  with  the  healthy 
life  blood  through  her  system.  The  good  soul  was  ever 
chanting  an  anthem,  and  its  burden  was  (although  she  knew 
it  not),  "  Good  will  toward  men  !"  Ay,  and  birds,  and  beasts, 
and  fishes — in  short,  toward  every  created  thing  wherein  cir- 
culated the  blood  or  sap  of  life. 

Loving  all  animated  nature  with  her  large  honest  heart,  Mrs. 
Grey  especially  enjoyed  companionship  with  the  same.  At 
an  earlier  period  her  social  qualities  had  been  fostered  aimm^ 
men — good-natured,  blustering,  loquacious  fellows,  with  lively 
gossiping  wives;  she  was  a  ready  gossip  herself  then,  and 


MRS.     GREY.  37 

might  be  yet,  if  she  could  find  a  listener.  Very  dreary  had 
seemed  the  Eyrie  to  the  good  woman,  when  first  she  led  cap- 
tive her  social  instincts  to  its  appalling  solitudes.  But  the 
principle  of  life  is  omnipresent.  Men  immured  in  dungeons 
are  not  (thank  God !)  alone  !  A  loathsome  spider  in  the  cell 
of  the  unfortunate,  may  act  an  angel's  part  in  awakening  hi^ 
dormant  sympathies.  Touching  friendships  have  subsisted 
between  mice  and  men  through  years  of  prison  companionship. 
The  germination  of  a  stray  seed  in  the  crevice  of  his  prison 
pavement  has  given  the  yearning  heart  of  the  captive  an  ob- 
ject of  interest,  sympathy,  and  delight.  Man  cannot  shut  his 
brother  out  from  the  all  pervading  life  of  nature. 

In  like  manner,  the  social  tendencies  of  Mrs.  Grey  sent 
forth  instinctive  tendrils  amid  the  abounding  Eyrie  life.  They 
grasped  at  pigs  and  chickens;  they  reached  frantically  after 
forest  birds ;  and  embraced,  with  tender  convolutions,  the  dog 
Cuff  and  the  cat  Chloe.  These  last-named  worthies  were 
confidential  friends,  to  whom  she  addressed  various  remarks, 
and  occasionally  consulted  in  household  emergencies,  as  an 
ancient  Cummer  might  be  supposed  to  consult  her  familiar. 
They  enjoyed,  indeed,  the  reputation  of  uncanny  beasts;  and, 
as  it  was  deemed  by  the  simple  country  folks  unlucky  to  offend 
them,  we  will  give  them  a  passing  notice. 

Cuff  was  an  estray  terrier,  who  rejoiced  in  the  personal 
advantages  of  a  coal  black  coat,  great  sulphurous  eyes,  and 
scarlet-lined  jaws.  No  one  knew  from  whence  he  came.  He 
appeared  at  the  Eyrie,  looked  upon  the  land  that  it  was  pleas- 
ant, curled  himself  upon  the  door  mat,  and  invested  himself 
4 


38  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

with  the  guardianship  of  the  estate ;  announcing  the  same  in 
noisy  proclamation  to  all  after  comers. 

Some  months  after  his  voluntary  assumption  of  office,  Mo.i- 
sieur  Cuff  returned  from  chase  in  the  forest,  with  a  miserably 
terrified  starveling  kitten  in  his  mouth,  which,  to  the  horror 
of  all  observers,  was  so  like  himself  as  to  suggest  the  idea 
that  these  mysterious  brutes  wore  the  livery  of  an  evil  master. 
There  was  the  same  ominously  black  coat,  the  same  yellow, 
glaring  eyes,  the  same  fiery  tongues.  As  the  cat  lay  panting 
on  the  floor,  and  the  dog  stood  over  his  strange  deposit,  the 
one  yelped,  and  the  other  hissed  and  spat,  with  wide,  red 
mouths,  in  such  a  diabolical  manner,  that  all  who  witnessed 
were  ready  to  aver  that  flames  issued  from  those  hot,  cavern- 
ous jaws ! 

An  unnatural,  and  (as  the  ignorant  believed)  unholy  friend- 
ship grew  between  these  children  of  Erebus,  which  filled  the 
minds  of  their  fellow  servitors  with  disquiet,  and  occasioned 
vacancies  in  the  household  which  Walsingham  found  difficult 
to  fill. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  John  Grey  died,  and  his 
excellent  helpmate,  deprived  of  her  little  home,  was  forced 
to  earn  her  bitter  bread  under  the  roof  of  another.  Very 
painful  to  this  veteran  housekeeper  was  the  prospect  of 
subordinacy.  Those  dear  domestic  tactics  known  among  the 
craft  as  "  my  ways"  to  be  subjugated  by  the  unworthy  ways 
of  a  mistress !  Forbid  it,  Fate  !  She  would  suffer  mar- 
tyrdom for  her  culinary  faith,  and  spoil  pickles  and  con- 
fections to  please  no  one.  This  spirit  naturally  interfered 


MRS.    OBEY.  39 

with  the  domestic  peace  of  Mrs.  Tonks,  to  whom  Grey  had 
reluctantly  proffered  her  assistance  in  household  mysteries; 
and  a  series  of  spirited  engagements  took  place,  in  which  Mrs. 
Tonks  hoped,  in  round,  Dutch  accents,  that  she  might  have 
her  own  way  in  her  own  house ;  and  Mrs.  Grey  proclaimed 
her  determination  to  "spile  good  vittles  to  please  nobody." 

While  these  two  ladies  were  battling  for  their  respective 
culinary  creeds,  Walsingham  became  conscious  of  great  dis- 
comfort in  his  domicil.  He  actually  went  supperless  to  bed 
one  night,  with  the  prospect  of  breaking  his  fast  upon  the 
roots  and  herbs  of  his  hermitage  in  the  morning,  the  inmates 
of  his  kitchen  having  one  by  one  deserted.  The  last  fugitive, 
as  she  took  her  winding  way  down  the  mountain,  paused  to 
rest  at  Mrs.  Tonks's,  and  described  the  state  of  affairs  at  the 
Eyrie : — "  It  was  all  along  of  them  bewitched  black  beasts," 
&he  said. 

"  I  never  tid  like  black ;  'tis  only  fit  for  a  witch's  petter- 
most !"  remarked  Dame  Tonks,  glancing  spitefully  at  Grey's 
mourning  garb. 

"  You  left  without  a  word  of  warning  ?"  inquired  that 
injured  lady,  not  observing  the  offensive  remark,  in  her  inte- 
rest for  the  deserted  Walsingham. 

He  was  such  a  solemn,  gravestone  sort  o'  man,  was  Wal- 
singham, she  was  always  afraid  to  say  boo  !  to  him,  and  had, 
consequently,  dispensed  with  the  distasteful  ceremony. 

"  Why,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  leave  the  poor  gentle- 
man so !"  remonstrated  Grey. 

"Ant  vy  den  ?"  cut  in  the  heavy  Dutch  tongue  of  the  mis- 


lit  EROS    AND    AN  TEH' 

tress  of  the  mansion.  "  Te  pig  man,  and  te  leetle  togge,  all 
both  pelong  to  te  same  Ault  Nick,  ant  little  lass  petter  run 
away  ash  stay !" 

"Nick  or  no,  she  might  have  given  warning,"  contended 
Grey,  whose  youth  having  been  passed  at  service,  had  her 
principles. 

"  Vat  nonshense  !  ven  beoples  vant  to  go,  dey  petter  go." 

"  I  want  to  go,"  said  Grey. 

"  Vat's  to  hinder  ?  dis  little  lass  will  take  your  ped,  to  your 
vork,  ant  we'll  have  peas  in  te  house.  Valk  out !"  and  Mrs. 
Tonks  set  wide  the  kitchen  door. 

The  good  vrow  was  obliged  to  postpone  the  enjoyment  of 
peas  until  morning,  as  Mrs.  Grey  declined  venturing  forth 
into  the  darkness  and  solitude  of  the  mountain. 

And  in  the  early  morning,  when  Walsingham  carried  his 
dignity  and  scholarship  into  the  kitchen,  in  search  of  a  crust 
of  bread,  or  a  glass  of  milk,  whereon  to  break  his  fast,  he  was 
appalled  by  the  barrenness  of  that  hitherto  unexplored  region. 

He  had  supposed  that  kitchens  spontaneously  flowed  with 
milk  and  honey;  but  when  he  got  there  the  cupboard  was 
bare,  and  so  the  poor  dog  (of  a  bachelor)  got  none  ! 

There  was  a  pan  of  milk,  to  be  sure,  but  when  he  dipped 
his  glass  in  it,  the  supposed  liquid  proved  a  solid,  and  broke 
in  thick,  jelly-like  masses,  that  made  him  sick  j  and  turning 
his  back  upon  it,  he  walked  forth  upon  the  lawn. 

A  rosy-cheeked,  respectable-looking  woman  in  black  ap- 
proached, and  saluted  him — 


MBS.    GREY.  41 

"  Good-morning,  sir.  Would  you  like  to  have  a  house- 
keeper?" 

"  I  would,  of  all  things/'  responded  the  hungry  bachelor, 
smiling  at  the  comfortable  suggestion. 

"  My  name  is  Jenny  Grey,  widow  of  John  Grey,  as  was 
drownded.  You  knew  John,  sir  ?" 

Mr.  Walsingham  had  known,  employed,  and  trusted  the 
departed  John,  and  was  only  too  happy  to  know,  employ,  and 
trust  his  bereaved  mate. 

Mrs.  Grey  was  forthwith  installed  in  the  duties  of  her 
office ;  and,  hanging  her  black  bonnet  and  shawl  upon  a  peg, 
proceeded  to  devise  a  breakfast,  with  none  to  molest  or  make 
her  afraid. 

After  sufficient  time  had  elapsed,  as  he  thought,  for  her  to 
survey  the  premises,  Walsingham  sought  this  household  queen, 
blushing  boyishly,  as  he  remembered  the  barrenness  of  her 
newly  acquired  domain. 

"  There  seems  to  be  nothing  here,  Mrs.  Grey.  I  would  like 
you  to  visit  town  and  lay  in  a  supply  of  such  things  as 
are  requisite  for  a  good  housekeeper,"  and  he  smiled  as  he 
tendered  his  purse. 

"There  would  be  time  enough  for  that,"  she  said,  cheerily, 
and  in  the  mean  time  she  would  give  him  his  breakfast.  The 
coffee  and  omelette  were  ready,  and  she  would  bake  the  flannel 
cakes  at  once. 

Breakfast  ?  Why,  the  woman  had  hardly  been  in  the  house 
long  enough  to  find  the  spoons,  and  here  was  the  table  neatly 
4* 


42  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

laid!  Coffee!  omelette!  flannel  cakes!  where  on  earth  did  she 
get  them  ?  The  poor,  ignorant,  helpless  fellow  had  seen  none 
of  these  things  in  the  pantry,  and  while  speculating  upon  the 
probable  connexion  between  flannel  cakes  and  petticoats,  the 
1  reakfast  bell  rang. 


CRUEL    IS    KIND.  43 


CHAPTER    V. 

CRUEL  IS  KIND. 

"Oh,  very,  very  dreary  is  the  room 
Where  Love,  domestic  Love,  no  longer  nestles, 
But  smitten  by  the  common  stroke  of  doom, 
The  corpse  lies  on  the  trestles !" 

HAUNTED  HOUSE. 

A  SICK-ROOM !  You  pause  upon  the  threshold,  fair  lady, 
for  sick-rooms  are  sad  to  youth  and  beauty.  But  youth  and 
beauty,  love  and  hope,  must  sometimes  enter  the  chamber  of 
suffering,  and  are  ofttimes  prisoners  there.  The  mother's 
cheerful  room  will  one  day  be  darkened — the  noisy,  joyous 
nursery,  perchance,  become  silent  and  sad,  or  your  own 
luxurious  boudoir,  where  you  are  dreaming  bright  dreams  of 
Love  to-day,  may  be  entered  by  a  sterner  archer ! 

Be  not  thus  startled,  lady,  but  give  a  thought  to  that  inevi- 
table meeting  with  the  last  enemy  of  thy  race,  that  when  the 
Inexorable  comes  to  claim  his  own,  thou  mayest  arise,  and 
meet  him  with  a  courageous  heart.  Ho  is  not  always  feared  ! 


44  EEOS    AND    ANTEROS. 

He  is  not  always  terrible !  Oh,  there  is  sometimes  that  in  life 
which  surpasses  the  bitterness  of  death  !  Come  with  me,  and 
see  Heaven's  usher  perform  his  mission. 

In  a  dimly  lighted  room,  a  lady,  pale  and  wasted,  is 
stretched  upon  her  couch.  Nestling  among  the  pillows,  by 
her  side,  with  her  flushed  cheek  pressed  to  that  of  the  dying 
one,  is  a  little  child.  By  the  bedside  stands  Walsingharn, 
holding  the  hand,  and  looking,  with  chastened  thought,  into 
the  face  of  the  only  woman  he  has  ever  loved.  Behind  him, 
the  Captain,  serious  and  still. 

These  are  not  all.  There  are  more,  although  we  see  them 
not !  Heaven's  angels  are  there  ministering — seraphic  faces 
bend  around  in  love  ineffable — the  dim  room  brightens  with 
their  halo,  and  their  mysterious  influences  enfold  these  mortal 
hearts! 

Believest  thou  this  ? 

And  one  other  is  there !  A  pale,  stern  shadow  broods 
above  that  head,  with  upraised  hand  which  falters  not.  Deal 
gently  with  her,  thou  Deliverer ! 

She  opens  her  eyes,  and  murmurs,  with  a  look  of  inquiry, 

"Viola?" 

"Mamma!"  responds  the  nestler,  with  a  kiss. 

"  You  will  be  kind  to  her ! — will  care  for  her — Walsing- 
ham?" 

"  So  gladly  I"  he  answers  in  a  tone  of  assurance.  He  would 
fain  say  more,  but  dares  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  It  is  as 
well;  for  the  mother  understands  that- she  may  repose  this 
dear  trust  in  him.  With  anxious  love  she  continues — 


CRUEL    IS    KIND.  43 

"Let  her  not  be  an  alien  in  your  house,  for  she  has  been 
nurtured  in  love.  Let  her  be  a  mister  to  your  own  little  ones, 
— and — and — oh,  Walsingham  !  will  the  wife  of  your  bosom 
be  a  mother  to  my  child  ?" 

She  fixes  her  large  dark  eyes  upon  him  with  a  look  of 
anxious  inquiry. 

"Viola,"  he  answers,  "my  home  is  wifeless — childless. 
The  vow  which  binds  me  to  your  little  one  is  the  only  one  I 
shall  ever  register." 

A  look  of  pained  surprise — a  moan  of  self-reproach,  tells 
him  she  has  learned  at  last  the  worth  of  the  heart  she  wrecked. 

But  that  is  past — other  thoughts  disturb  the  pillow  of  the 
dying. 

"  Tell  him — my  husband — you  may  meet  one  day — that  I 
forgive  as  I  would  be  forgiven.  I  do  not  say  he  wronged  me 
— / — who  am  so  much  in  the  wrong  myself.  Right  and 
wrong  are  so  confused — so  intermingled — I  can't  unravel  it 
now — it  will  soon  be  clearer  I" 

They  wave  their  shining,  wings  around  to  dissipate  the 
glooms  that  have  gathered  so  darkly  j  but  she  sees  not  those 
bright  companions  of  her  dawning  future,  waiting  with  serene 
expectancy  the  soul's  birth  into  eternity.  She  sees  them  not, 
for  the  flesh  is  still  strong ! 

"  Tell  him  to  deal  wisely  with  our  boy,  of  whom  we  were 
both  so  proud.  Oh,  my  first  born  !  you  are  not  here  to  receive 
my  blessing.  How  can  I  die  and  leave  him  in  the  wide, 
wicked  world  !" 

"Though  earth  is  wide,  he«ven  is  above  all/'   says  the 


46  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

deep  voice  of  the  Captain.  And  the  celestial  band  xook  in 
each  other's  eyes  and  smile  with  glad  intelligence,  for  they 
know  that  "HE  shall  give  his  angels  charge  concerning" 
him. 

Poor  anguished  spirit,  the  seraphs  sing  to  thee,  and  their 
theme  is,  rest — peace  !  rest — peace  ! 

The  influence  of  their  spirit  voices  pervades  her  heart, 
albeit  unheard  by  the  ear  of  flesh,  and  she  smiles,  as  she 
utters, 

"Rest! — Peace!" 

Then  an  angel  shouts,  with  triumphant  voice,  "Heaven!" 
but  the  soul,  halting  on  heaven's  verge,  comprehends  not 
the  lofty  music.  Earthly  voices  drown  the  strain. 

"  Mamma  ! — mamma ! — look  at  me — speak  to  me ! — I  am 
afraid!" 

"  You  have  called  me  back,  darling  ! — I  am  not  afraid ; 
why  should  you  be?  Who  says  that  Death  is  cruel?" 

"  Death  is  cruel !  Death  is  cruel !"  murmured  the  shud- 
dering child,  her  vague  terrors  taking  shape  from  her  mother's 
words.  And  still  the  cold  shadow  broods,  unmoved  by  the  wail 
of  sorrow. 

Death  is  cruel! 

Peace,  maligner ! 

Softly,  at  the  appointed  time,  he  breathes  upon  the  burning 
brow,  and  it  grows  cool.  He  lays  a  restraining  hand  on  the 
tumultuous  heart,  and  it  is  still. 

And  as  those  earthly  faces  fade  from  the  failing  vision,  the 
seraph  host  brightens  around  the  ted.  In  exultant  gladness 


OEUEL    IS    KIND.  47 

the  disenthi'alled  spirit  joins  that  glorious  company,  and  flits 
forth  into  the  vastness  of  eternity.  And  still  in  that  death- 
chamber  rings  the  distracted  cry, 

"  Death  is  cruel !     Dvath  is  cruel!" 

Ah,  yes  !  it  is  to  the  bereaved,  the  darkened,  the  blind,  the 
circumscribed  that  death  is  cruel!  To  those  for  whom  he 
refuses  to  lift  the  veil ;  and  not  to  the  favoured,  who,  by  the 
power  of  his  arm,  are  launched  intc  the  illimitable  bliss  of 
eternal  being  I 


48  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AN    AMICABLE    TRIO. 

"  She  had  a  tabby  of  her  own, 
A  snappish  mongrel,  christened  Gog ; 
What  do  you  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  do  you  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

HOOD. 

VERY  heavily  did  time  hang  on  the  hands  of  social  Grey, 
after  the  departure  of  her  master.  She  was  fruitful  in 
resources,  however,  and  devised  a  pretty  little  house-cleaning 
divertisement,  the  charming  excitement  of  which  beguiled 
the  tedium  of  her  solitude.  The  lumber-room  was  trans- 
formed into  a  nursery  for  the  expected  child;  a  vision  of 
which,  in  white  long-clothes,  hovered  perpetually  about  the 
good  lady's  head.  The  student's  library  was  so  thoroughly 
"put  to  rights,"  that  he  did  not  find  his  favourite  authors 
for  a  twelvemonth  after.  A  brewing  of  currant  wine  was 
concocted  for  the  delectation  of  supposititious  guests.  Mrs. 
Grey  made  it  yearly;  it  was  growing  old  in  the  cellar,  all  the 


AN    AMICABLE    TRIO.  49 

better  for  keeping,  and  was  sure  to  be  used  some  day.  A  few 
jellies  and  jams  were  compounded;  after  which  tbe  indus- 
trious dame,  having  exhausted  her  active  amusements,  was 
fain  to  take  her  sewing,  summon  her  council,  and  proceed  to 
stitch  and  chat. 

This  council,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  kitchen  cabinet, 
composed  of  Premier  Cuff,  and  his  coadjutor  Chloe,  was 
regarded  by  Mrs.  Grey  with  a  vague  gratitude.  She  felt  that 
by  their  occult  practices  she  had  been  provided  with  a  peace- 
ful, albeit  lonely  (she  could  not  forget  that  it  was  lonely) 
home;  and  as  became  the  recipient  of  so  great  a  benefit,  she 
was  mindful  of  the  comfort  of  her  swarthy  friends. 

Spreading  a  mat  at  her  feet,  upon  which  they  curled  them- 
selves in  amity,  the  good  woman  arranged  her  sewing.  From 
this  she  frequently  looked  up  to  apostrophize  her  companions; 
for  what  was  companionship  without  conversation? 

Mrs.  Grey  had  found  her  humble  friends  the  best  of  listen- 
ers, and  was  in  the  habit  of  confiding  to  them  her  arrange- 
ments, opinions,  and  conjectures;  and,  to  their  honour  be  it 
said,  they  never  had  betrayed  her  confidence,  which,  in  all 
probability,  they  would  have  done  had  they  been  human. 

They  were  consulted  with  profit  too  in  doubtful  cases,  as  for 
instance : — 

"Pussy,  I've  lost  my  gusset;  I  always  do  lose  gussets: 
they  are  so  little;  and — Did  you  see  my  gusset,  Chloe?" 

Chloe  mewed,  showing  her  scarlet  jaws,  and  with  diabolical 
prescience  rubbed  aside  her  mistress's  dress,  revealing  the  lost 
gusset, 

5 


50  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"  Bless  the  cat !  She  knows  more  than  most  humans,  don't 
she,  Cuff?" 

Cuff  opened  one  sulphurous  eye,  and  closed  it  again  with  a 
wink,  which  might  be  interpreted  to  mean,  "  We  know  what 
we  know." 

Standing  on  the  table  beside  the  eccentric  needlewoman, 
was  a  friend  more  valued  than  Cuff,  more  sagacious  than  Chloe, 
more  companionable  than  either.  It  was  the  kitchen  clock, 
so  called  because  Mrs.  Grey  found  it  on  a  shelf  in  the  kitchen 
when  she  arrived ;  but  since  her  advent,  it  had  become  a  most 
ubiquitous  piece  of  mechanism.  Wherever  was  Mrs.  Grey, 
there  was  the  clock.  If  in  the  kitchen,  it  stood  on  its  accus- 
tomed shelf;  if  in  the  dining-room,  on  a  little  table  beside  her 
work-basket;  and  if  in  her  room,  on  the  mantel  opposite  the 
good  woman's  bed.  The  poor  little  clock  was  carried  up  to 
bed  every  night ;  and  during  the  day  might  frequently  be  seen 
in  its  transit  from  one  spot  to  another. 

"  It's  awful  lonesome  without  you,"  said  Mrs.  Grey. 

The  clock  was  not  only  a  good  listener,  but  made  valuable 
suggestions  of  its  own;  such  as,  "the  ham  has  boiled  long 
enough;"  or,  "you  had  better  be  seeing  about  dinner;"  or 
again,  "one  mortal  hour  you  have  wasted."  It  was  an  oracle 
consulted  hourly;  a  regulator  who  directed  every  move  within 
the  mansion;  a  companion  ever,  present,  ever  prompt,  ever 
true.  Soulless  and  senseless,  but  more  perfect,  more  infallible 
perhaps,  because  devoid  of  soul  and  sense.  A  wonderful 
emanation  of  the  finite  mind;  a  creation  of  the  human  hand, 
vigilant  in  the  service  of  its  maker;  a  spy  upon  fugitive  time, 


AN    AMICABLE    TRIO.  51 

and  a  faithful  reporter  of  his  crafty  theft  of  minutes  from 
the  unwary. 

"  Click,  click,  click,"  it  whispered  (other  clocks  say  « tick," 
but  this  sharp  little  thing  said  "click"  like  a  steel-trap). 
"  Click,  click,  click,  there  they  go — one  by  one ! — seconds, 
minutes,  how  they  run  ! — click,  click,  tjie  day  is  done,  and 
the  night  has  just  begun !  Days  like  minutes  rapid  run, 
nights  are  passing  one  by  one ;  time  itself  will  soon  be  done. 
Boom,  boom,  boom,  boom!  boom !  boom !"  and  with  a  suc- 
cession of  reports  like  the  explosion  of  a  six-barrelled  revolver, 
this  faithful  sentinel  announced  that  another  hour  had  passed 
for  ever  down  the  rapids  of  time. 

"  Six  o'clock,  is  it  ?  I  suppose  I  must  put  by  my  sewing, 
and  see  about  tea.  Mr.  Walsingham  will  be  here  in  less  than 
an  hour,  eh  ?" 

"  Click,  click,"  answered  the  little  clock  with  a  loud,  busy, 
bustling  voice.  That  clock  was  always  in  a  hurry,  remember- 
ing that  time  was  ever  on  the  wing,  and  might  possibly  get 
the  start  of  her. 

Placing  her  work-basket  on  its  accustomed  stand,  Mrs.  Grey 
Ducked  the  clock  under  her  arm,  and  proceeded  tathe  kitchen, 
feeling  that,  on  the  whole,  she  had  had  a  tolerably  lively  after- 
noon. 

"  Come,  Cuff,"  said  she,  as  she  placed  the  clock  on  its  shelf, 
and  picked  up  the  water-bucket;  "you  and  I  must  go  to  the 
spring  for  water  to  fill  the  kettle.  Don't  you  think  the  path 
is  steeper  than  it  used  to  be,  my  old  fellovr  ?  But  you're  a 
sure-footed  beast,  and  I  am  not.  Not  a  beast  ?  no,  not  sure- 


52  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

footed ; — yes,  not  a  beast,  too !  You  yelp  so  I  don't  know  what 
I'm  saying.  Bless  you,  Cuffee,  how  low  the  spring  is  !  I 
hope  it  won't  go  dry,"  etc.,  etc.,  ad  infinitum. 

Trotting  along  by  his  mistress's  side,  Cuff  vouchsafed  nbt 
to  reply.  It  would  have  been  a  work  of  supererogation  if  he 
had,  Mrs.  Grey  being  more  interested  in  the  expression  of  her 
own  views  than  in  receiving  those  of  other  people.  Conver- 
sation with  her  was  rather  a  one-sided  affair. 

She  observed,  however,  on  entering  the  kitchen,  that  the 
clock,  with  warning  finger,  pointed  to  five  minutes  spent  in. 
the  spring  excursion. 

"  To  be  sure  I've  dallied,"  said  she,  nodding  good-naturedly 
in  the  face  of  her  monitor ;  "  but  I'll  fly  round,  and  make  it 
up.  Come,  and  skim  the  milk,  puss,  puss;"  and  down  the 
cellar-stairs  she  hastened,  skimmer  in  hand,  followed  by  gri- 
malkin, who  mewed  villanously  during  the  skimming  process, 
and  refused  to  receive  her  mistress's  communications  until  con- 
ciliated by  her  usual  saucer  of  milk. 

Talking  to  the  cat,  the  dog,  the  clock  herself,  and,  if  the 
proverb  be  true,  the  Evil  One,  the  loquacious  dame  proceeded 
briskly  with  her  preparations  for  tea — her  lively  colloquies 
(can  these  one-sided  affairs  be  called  such  ?)  never  retarding 
her  movements,  but  rather  accelerating  them.  The  faster  she 
talked  the  faster  she  moved,  as  men  march  in  time  to  music ; 
and  never  were  her  movements  so  :nefficient  and  spiritless  as 
when  performed  in  silence. 

"It's  almost  time  they  were  here/'  said  Mrs.  Grey,  looking 
in  the  face  of  her  friend. 


AN    AMICABLE    TIIIO.  53 

"  Fifteen  minutes  of  seven,"  replied  the  clock. 

"  I  wish  they  would  come  before  you  strike/'  observed  she. 

"  Click,  click/'  continued  the  rapid  little  clock,  as  if  she 
would  say,  "  They  had  better  hurry — tempusfugit." 

But  as  she  was  about  to  raise  her  usual  nue  and  cry  after 
the  vanished  hour,  the  sound  of  wheels  attracted  Grey  and  her 
coadjutors  to  tht  door. 


5* 


54  EROS    AND    ANTEROS 


CHAPTER   VII. 

ENTERTAINS  ANGELS  UNAWARES. 

"  A  little  child,  a  limber  elf- 
Singing,  dancing,  to  herself!" 

COLERIDGE. 

A  STRANGE  event  in  the  home  of  Arthur  Walsingham  was 
the  advent  of  a  little  child.  Mrs.  Grey  (fortunately  for  her 
master)  was  enraptured,  as  before  hinted ;  for  "  the  place  was 
a  dreadful  out-of-the-way  place,  and  a  child  was  such  com- 
pany." The  approbation  of  that  important  functionary 
secured,  all  minor  embarrassments  melted  from  the  new 
guardian's  path,  by  virtue  of  certain  abstruse  practices  known 
only  to  housekeepers. 

Mrs.  Grey's  baton  of  office  was  a  magic  wand ;  she  touched 
the  lumber-room,  and,  presto,  behold !  an  airy,  well-appointed 
chamber  for  the  little  guest.  She  waved  it  ever  the  bachelor's 
board,  and  uprose  beside  the  tea  and  toast,  or  roast  and  broil, 
dainty  diet  adapted  to  the  taste  of  a  child.  What  paps  would 


ENTERTAINS    ANGELS    UNAWARES.  55 

she  not  compound  !  what  achievements  of  custards  were  hers  ! 
what  a  wonderfully  endowed  woman  was  Mrs.  Grey ! 

The  child  was  very  beautiful ;  like,  yet  unlike  her  mother. 
A  spiritual  face,  lighted  by  large  mystic  eyes  and  shaded  by 
clustering  curls  of  gold.  She  seemed  shy,  stunned,  and 
bewildered,  and  looked  with  piteous  eagerness  in  the  direction 
of  opening  doors  or  approaching  footsteps,  as  though  she  ex- 
pected the  appearance  of  the  mother  for  ever  lost.  Walsing- 
hana  was  surprised  that  she  did  not  ask  for  her.  He  did  not 
know  that  an  uneasy  remembrance  of  a  pale  passionless  face 
in  its  last  repose,  strangely  unheedful  of  her  childish  agony, 
awed  the  inquiry  that  trembled  on  her  lips.  This,  in  time, 
gave  place  to  happier  memories  j  and  the  child,  but  faintly 
comprehending  her  bereavement,  thought  of  her  mother,  not 
with  grief  and  tears,  but  with  infinite  love  and  vague  yearn- 
ing. The  mother  was  so  interwoven  with  every  hour  of  her 
young  life's  experiences,  and  so  linked  with  all  her  infantile 
knowledge,  that  to  remember  at  all,  was  to  think  of  Tier. 
Mamma  lived  in  all  -mamma  had  taught :  through  her  pre- 
cepts, she,  like  a  living  presence,  pervaded  the  heart  of  her 
child. 

The  child  was  a  reflective  and  imaginative  little  creature, 
whose  active  mind  had  reached  up  to  companionship  with 
maturity.  Walsingham  fancied  that  her  mother  had  talked 
much  with  her,  and  it  became  a  pleasure  to  him  to  listen  to 
her  prattle.  He.  traced  her  mother's  influence  in  all  she  said, 
and  sometimes  felt  as  though  she  spoke  to  him  from  the  past 
through  this  novel  medium.  Unaccustomed  as  he  was  to 


00  .  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

children,  this  one  was  to  him  a  new  and  beautiful  revelation 
of  life.  Her  fair  transparent  face  was  like  the  face  of  an 
angel  in  his  home ;  and  he  never  contemplated  its  spiritual 
loveliness  without  holy  thoughts.  He  would  take  her  in  his 
arms,  and  be  reminded  of  that  favoured  child  whom  Jesus 
blessed.  "  Truly,"  he  would  think,  in  the  language  of  the 
benediction,  "  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven."  He  would 
listen  to  her  prattle,  abounding  in  quaint  unconscious  wisdom, 
and  recall  the  inspiration  of  Samuel's  childhood.  Her  gentle 
attributes  won  on  his  sterner  and  self-sufficient  nature,  until 
the  affections  which  had  so  long  run  to  waste  were  gathered 
up  and  garnered  in  her. 

One  night,  soon  after  he  had  brought  this  new-found  treasure 
home,  before  retiring  to  rest  he  stepped  into  her  little  room, 
which  adjoined  his  own,  to  look  at  the  sleeping  child. 

Sleeping  he  had  supposed  her  to  be;  but,  when  he  bent 
over  her,  he  was  startled  by  the  large  lustrous  eyes  that 
looked  wonderingly  into  his  own. 

"  What,  my  little  one,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  are  you  awake 
yet  ?" 

"  It  is  not  dark  enough  to  sleep,"  she  answered,  pointing  to 
a  long  path  of  moonlight  streaming  across  the  floor.  He  im- 
mediately dropped  the  window  blind,  and  shut  out  the 
nocturnal  brightness. 

"  Please  don't !"  plead  the  little  voice. 

"Why  not?     You  can't  sleep  when  the  room  is  so  light." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  sleep — I  don't  want  the  light  shut 
out — it  is  my  own  light." 


ENTERTAINS    ANGELS    UNAWARES.  57 

"  Oh,  ho  !  private  property,  is  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  the  little  maiden  answered,  with  a  simple  dignity 
that  seemed  in  a  manner  to  rebuke  his  levity,  and  doubts  too, 
if  he  entertained  any. 

"And  how  is  it  yours?"  lie  inquired,  curious  to  learn  what 
lien  she  would  file  upon  moonlight.  t 

She  hesitated ;  but  as  he  sat  down  by  her  bed,  and  taking 
her  tiny  hand  in  his  own,  caressed  the  pink  curling  fingers 
(a  wonderful  little  piece  of  mechanism  it  was,  he  thought, 
and  beautiful  beyond  compare),  she  grew  confidential. 

"Why,"  she  began,  in  childish  narrative,  "you  know  I 
never  slept  alone  until  I  came  here,  and — " 

"  True,"  interrupted  the  guardian,  "  I  never  thought  of 
that." 

"  And  in  the  dark  I  was  afraid  j  and  so  one  night  when  I 
said  my  prayers  (mamma  taught  me  my  prayers),  I  asked  God 
to  let  there  be  light." 

"  Let  tliere  lie  light,"  repeated  Walsingham,  struck  by  the 
sublime  expression  of  Holy  Writ  adapted  to  her  little  story. 

"  Yes,  the  Bible  says  that,  and  prayers  must  be  like  the 
Bible  you  know." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  Well,  then,  as  I  lay  in  bed,  this  beautiful  light  came 
creeping,  creeping,  along  the  carpet,  and  every  night  it  lies 
upon  the  floor,  and  watches  me,  and  I  watch  it,  and  I  do  not 
like  to  go  to  sleep,  for  then  it  will  be  gone  when  I  waken." 

"And  you  think  it  is  sent  to  you  especially?" 


58  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"  Yes,  sir;  because  I  said  my  prayers,  and  God  heard  them," 
she  answered  with  simple  faith. 

"  What  do  you  think  it  is  ?"  he  inquired,  willing  to  hear  a 
further  exposition  of  her  sweet  belief. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  somewhat  puzzled ;  and  then 
with  a  bright  glad  look,  expressive  of  a  sudden  revelation, 
added,  "  I  think  it  is  my  guardian  angel,  don't  you  ?  Mamma 
told  me  about  guardian  angels ;  they  watch  by  our  beds,  and 
take  care  of  us,  and  all  the  while  we  don't  see  them." 

"  This,  you  do  see,"  suggested  he. 

"  Then  it  is  not  my  guardian  angel,"  the  child  replied,  in  a 
tone  of  disappointment.  "  I  wonder  if  it  is  an  l  an  angel  of 
light?'" 

"  My  little  Mystic  is  familiar  with  the  whole  hierarchy,  I 
believe,"  said  Walsingham ;  and,  taking  her  in  his  arms,  he 
bore  her  to  the  window,  and  bade  her  look  abroad. 

"  Your  l  angel  of  light'  is  not  only  by  your  little  bed  to- 
night, my  sweet  one.  His  white  wings  encompass  the  heavens, 
and  his  broad  benediction  covers  the  earth." 

The  young  votary  nestled  in  his  arms,  and  looked  abroad  in 
smiling  silence.  Children  often  enjoy  most  when  least  demon- 
strative. 

"  What  do  you  see  ?"  he  asked. 

He  longed  to  hear  her  resume  her  prattle,  and  was  also 
curious  to  know  what  feature  in  all  the  moonlit  beauty  of 
earth  and  heaven  would  most  engage  the  attention  of  the  child. 

"  I  see  a  little  star,  following  the  moon,  just  as  I  loved  to 


ENTERTAINS    ANGELS    UNAWARES.  59 

follow  inamma.  I  wonder  if  the  stars  are  the  moon's  little 
children  ?" 

This  reminded  him  of  a  poet's  conceit,  and  he  repeated — 

"  The  young  moon,  like  a  Roman  mother, 
'Mid  her  living  jewels  shone." 

"Then  the  moon  is  their  mother!"  exclaimed  the  child, 
who  needed  no  better  authority  than  a  poet's  verse. 
"  Now  let  me  lay  you  in  your  bed,  sweet  child." 
"  Not  till  I  bid  the  little  star  good-night !     I  can  do  it  in 
poetry — such  beautiful  poetry !     Listen : — 

"Good-night,  little  star,  I  will  go  to  my  bed, 
And  leave  you  to  burn,  while  I  lay  down  my  head 
On  my  pillow  to  rest,  till 'the  morning  light ; 
Then  you  shall  be  fading,  and  I  shall  be  bright." 

There!  mamma  taugtt  me  that — but  it  is  not  a  prayer j" 
and  with  an  impulse  of  love  she  threw  her  arms  about  him, 
pressed  a  warmer  and  sweeter  good-night  upon  his  lips,  and 
sprang  lightly  into  her  bed. 

The  fascinated  student  adjusted  the  counterpane  with  awk- 
ward tenderness,  and  held  one  hand  in  his,  while  he  beguiled 
her  mind  from  the  themes  which  had  excited  it.  Soothed  by 
his  presence,  the  little  lids  drooped  softly,  the  dimpled  hand 
relaxed  its  clasp,  and  the  young  spirit  wandered  in  spirit-land, 
enjoying  those  glimpses  of  Heaven  which  bless  our  sleep  in 
dreams. 

And  as  the  child  slumbered,  the  man  sat  in  meditation  by 
her  pillow.  He  rememttred  his  own  carefully-nurtured  child- 


60  EROS  AND  ANTER;  s. 

hood;  the  teachings  of  his  matchless  mother;  the  love  which 
had  trained  and  guided  him,  and  made  him  something  better 
than  he  now  was.  Then  he  thought  of  the  light-laughing 
Viola,  triumphant  in  girlish  beauty,  transformed  into  a  patient, 
pious  mother  like  his  own,  by  the  wondrous  power  of  maternal 
love.  He  pictured  her  alternately  teaching  and  caressing  her 
treasure,  and  by  a  few  soft  graceful  touches  making  her  im- 
press upon  the  young  spirit  ere  she  went  hence  for  ever. 
Then  his  mind  came  back  to  the  little  one. 

He  thought  of  the  great  loss  sustained  by  the  sleeping 
'child.  He  thought  also  of  her  delicate  organization,  her 
poetic  temperament,  and  her  beautiful  though  startling  specu- 
lations upon  the  invisible  world.  He  thought  with  reverence 
of  that  realizing  faith  whereby  the  vague  and  scant  revealings 
of  the  unseen  were  transformed  into  large  and  perfect  reali- 
ties in  the  heart  of  the  undoubting  child.  He  almost  felt  that 
to  this  unsullied  nature  God  had  vouchsafed  revealings  with- 
held from  the  world-hardened  and  world-encompassed,  and 
the  lisping  infant  seemed  half  endowed  with  a  prophet's  dig- 
nity. 

With  these  reflections  came  the  unpleasant  suspicion  that 
in  the  training  of  this  peculiarly  gifted  child  he  should  require 
something  more  than  the  aid  of  the  hitherto  all-sufficient  Mrs. 
Grey.  Grey  was  unequalled  in  her  province  of  providing  for 
the  wants  of  the  creature,  but  who  was  to  minister  to  the 
cravings  of  this  spiritual  nature  ? 


EYIUE    LIFE  61 


CHAPTER    VIII. 


EYRIE  LIFE. 


IF  "Walsingham  in  his  self-sufficiency  supposed  that  a  fussy 
housekeeper,  a  rollicking  sailor,  and  a  misanthropic  student 
composed  the  domestic  circle  at  the  Eyrie,  he  was  about  to 
receive  enlightenment.  With  the  nice  discrimination  of 
childhood  Viola  found  more  congenial  companionship  in 
Mrs.  Grey's  large  and  interesting  circle  of  domestic  animals, 
with  whom  sne  soon  established  *  a  friendly  pact.  The 
guardian  laid  aside  his  books  to  learn  that  his  solitude  was 
extremely  populous;  that  pigs,  chickens,  and  the  like  have 
an  individuality  of  their  own ;  that  childhood  possesses  a  spi- 
rit of  adaptation  and  buoyancy  of  being  which  it  were  wisdom 
to  emulate ;  that  Viola's  death  left  not  one  stricken  and  faith- 
ful mourner  such  as  had  bewailed  her  falsehood ;  with  various 
scraps  of  valuable  knowledge  such  as  we  all  arrive  at,  by  one 
process  or  another,  in  our  journey  through  life.  Here  was 
the  orphan  child  of  Viola,  forgetting  her  great  loss,  and  fixing 
her  detached  affections  upon  the  fowls  of  the  air  and  the 
beasts  of  the  field  When  his  love  was  lost  to  him,  he  had 
G 


62  EROS     AND     ANTEROS. 

stifled  his  kindliest  sympathies,  and  ignored  the  minor  inter- 
ests of  life ;  he  felt,  as  he  observed  the  happy  child,  that  he 
had  not  done  well  to  refuse  the  humble  substitutes  which 
nature  offers  her  disappointed  or  bereaved  children. 

Viola  had  quite  supplanted  Mrs.  Grey  in  the  affections  of 
her  dumb  friends.  She  and  the  cat  Chloe  were  on  most  con- 
fidential terms,  and  kept  up  a  mysterious  whispering  and 
purring  in  corners,  while  a  matronly  hen,  rearing  a  tender 
brood  of  young,  regarded  her  with  such  distinguished  favour 
as  to  suffer  her  invasion  of  the  sacred  social  circle  without 
remonstrance.  When  Madame  cried  cluck,  the  fluttering 
wee  biddies  and  toddling  child  emerged  from  their  respective 
nooks,  and  hastened  to  the  .rendezvous,  eager  to  learn  the  cause 
of  the  maternal  summons.  So  far  from  resenting  the  intrusion 
of  the  diminutive  lady,  the  amiable  dame  received  her  as  one 
of  the  family,  and  she  was  welcome  to  share  their  pickings  if 
she  chose.  Two  mocking  birds  were  building  a  nest  in  the 
apple  tree,  not  so  much  for  their  own  convenience  as  the 
child's  entertainment,  Walsingham  thought.  With  gliding, 
serpentine  movement,  they  flitted  eternally  through  the  shrub- 
bery, chattering,  twittering,  singing  in  mad  mimicry  of  all 
woodland  voices,  and  carrying  their  wild  buffoonery  to  the 
extravagant  excess  of  mewing  like  the  dignified  Chloe  herself. 

The  dove  cote  contained  a  busy  company,  whose  proceedings 
were  watched  from  afar  with  interest.  There  was  the  elegant 
and  graceful  Widow  White,  who,  bereaved  of  her  beloved 
mate,  sat  apart  pluming  her  pure  bosom  into  the  most  dazzling 
whiteness,  and  arching  her  snowy  neck  in  the  sunshine,  with 


EYRIE    LIFE.  63 

melancholy  coo  the  while,  which  seemed  heralding  her  sorrows 
to  nature's  drowsy  ear. 

There  was  Bully  Bluster  (the  Captain  was  his  sponsor !),  a 
portly,  mid^e-agcd  bird,  of  choleric  temper,  who  seemed  a 
personage  of  weight  and  authority  in  the  feathered  community. 
This  individual,  prompt  to  perceive  and  resent  the  most  acci- 
dental infringement  of  his  smallest  right  (though  what  right 
any  other  fellow  had  to  flutter  a  pigeon's  wing  he  could  not 
understand),  was  generally  in  the  indignant  mood.  What 
with  driving  vagabond  loiterers  from  his  doorstep,  chastising 
insolent  coxcombs  who  fluttered  about  Fanny,  and  keeping  a 
sharp  lookout  for  offenders  generally,  he  was  usually  in 
dudgeon.  It  was  positively  awful  to  see  him,  under  a  sense 
of  his  injuries,  rusmng  rapidly  to  and  fro  on  his  paddle,  or 
whirling  round  and  about  in  fierce  excitement,  his  body  swell- 
ing, plumage  ruffling,  and  red  eye  glaring,  while  a  wrathful 
growl  of  malediction  consigned  the  whole  feathered  fraternity 
to  pot — pie :  on  such  occasions  he  seemed  an  epitome  of  a 
bull-dog  tarred  and  feathered.  Uninfluenced  by  the  example 
of  constancy  set  him  by  Widow  White  on  the  next  paddle, 
and  undaunted  by  a  trick  which  Walsingham  had  of  break- 
fasting on  his  tender  mates,  the  crested  hero  had  selected  a 
third  mate,  one  Fanny  Fantail,  much  younger  than  himself. 
A  January  and  May  sort  of  affair  their  union  was.  Those  who 
picture  the  young  thing,  immured  in  the  nest  of  a  crusty  old 
curmudgeon  and  pining  under  domestic  tyranny,  misconstrue 
the  character  of  Bully  Bluster.  A  more  kind,  coddling,  fussy 
old  fool  of  a  husband  never  waited  upon  the  whims  of  a  wife. 


64  EROSANDANTEHOS. 

She  was  the  safety-valve  through  which  he  relieved  himself 
of  the  compressed  tenderness  of  his  nature ;  and  although  he 
habitually  squared  himself  in  boxing  attitude  against  all  crea- 
tion, it  was  his  sovereign  pleasure  to  be  henpecked  by  Fauuy. 
Has  he  not  his  parallel  in  human  kind  ? 

Fanny  was  usually  in  the  straw,  and  he  with  bustling  im- 
portant air  was  hurrying  to  and  fro,  hither  and  thither,  eyeing 
with  an  imposing  air  of  connoisseurship,  and  selecting,  or  re- 
jecting, bits  of  hay  to  tuck  about  her  feet,  or  dainty  crumbs 
for  her  regalement.  Had  she  felt  that  she  could  relish  a  grain 
of  rice,  he  would  have  flown  to  the  fields  of  Georgia  to  pack 
his  crop. 

Numerous  lesser  characters  flitted  across  the  scene;  ena- 
moured birds  "with  livelier  iris  changing  on  their  burnished 
breasts,"  pursuing  some  flying  Daphne  through  the  forest;  or 
tender  mothers  conducting  their  debutant  brood  through  the 
dizzy  perils  of  first  flight,  kept  up  the  busy  interest  of  the 
scene.  Although  the  little  spectator  could  not  fully  under- 
stand these  various  manoeuvres,  the  tedium  of  hours  was  be- 
guiled in  watching  and  wondering  what  it  all  could  mean. 
Thus,  in  the  unmolested  contemplation  of  the  ever  varying 
kaleidoscope  of  nature,  was  she  amused,  beguiled — perhaps 
taught. 

Now,  one  day  when  Mrs.  Grey,  accompanied  by  the  little 
Viola,  had  transacted  certain  mysterious  business  in  the  vil- 
lage, she  called  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Irving  (the  daughter  of 
a  former  mistress)  to  refresh  herself  with  the  latest  fashiona- 
]i1o  intelligence  current  in  kitchen  nrcles,  and  in  turn  enter 


EYRIE    LIFE.  05 

tain  her  friends  with  the  wonderful  story  of  Viola's  advent  at 
the  Eyrie,  of  which  it  appeared  in  some  inexplicable  way  Mrs. 
Grey  herself  was  the  heroine. 

While  she  discoursed  with  the  demoiselles  of  the  household, 
her  young  charge  grew  very  sociable  with  the  little  Irvings  in 
ihe  garden  :  enjoying,  poor  lonely  thing,  such  a  game  of  romps 
as  she  had  never  dreamed  of  before. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Grey,  not  yet !  I  do  not  want  to  go  home  yet  I" 
she  cried,  when  that  lady  came  in  search  of  her. 

"  Don't  want  to  go  home,  and  it  so  late  !  That's  always  the 
way  with  children,"  pettishly  exclaimed  Mrs.  Grey,  who  had 
herself  chatted  in  the  kitchen  beyond  the  proper  hour  for 
leaving.  "  Come,  come — and  be  quick,  child." 

"  It  is  not  very  late,  for  the  sun  has  not  gone  down  into  the 
river,  and  the  fireflies  are  not  yet  out.  Let  me  play  a  little 
longer — do,  Mrs.  Grey." 

"Can  she  not  tstay  with  the  children  to-night,  Hannah?" 
interposed  Mrs.  Irving,  who  sat  with  her  needlework  in  an 
arbour.  She  had  already  heard  the  history  of  the  little  guest, 
and  had  been  charmed  with  the  manner  and  appearance  of  the 
child.  "  She  can  sleep  with  Helen,  and  I  will  drive  with  her 
to  the  Eyrie  in  the  morning." 

"  You  sweet  darling,"  exclaimed  Viola,  to  Helen,  in  childish 
ecstasy,  "  how  I  would  love  to  stay  with  you  to-night !"  She 
lowered  her  voice  as  she  added,  "  I  think  it  is  dreadful  to  be 
alone  in  the  cold,  dark  night — don't  you?" 

Helen,  laughed  and  said  she  could  not  tell;  that  it  was 
always  warm  and  bright,  and  full  of  children,  in  their  nursery. 
0  * 


66  EROS.AND     ANTEROS. 

"  How  charming  that  must  be  !"  cried  Viola.  "  Mrs.  G-rey, 
shall  I  stay?" 

"  Look !  the  sun  has  gone  down  now,"  said  the  duenna, 
"  and  it  will  soon  be  dark.  Then  Mr.  Walsingham  will  sit 
alone  by  the  study  window,  and  wonder  why  his  little  girl  docs 
not  climb  on  his  knee,  and  sing  songs  to  him  in  the  twilight. 
That's  the  way  she  does,  ma'am,"  continued  Grey,  in  an  aside, 
dropping  the  style  of  expression,  which  she  considered  appro- 
priate to  Viola,  and  resuming  her  own — "  That's  the  way  she 
does,  ma'am ;  it's  good  as  a  play  to  hear  her." 

"I  must  go,"  said  Viola  quickly,  turning  to  her  little 
friend ;  "  but  can't  you  come  with  me  ?" 

"  Yes,"  chimed  Grey,  "  do  let  me  take  her  with  us,  Mrs. 
Irving ;  I  know  all  your  ways  with  the  children,  and  will  take 
good  care  of  her.  Mr.  Walsingham  will  be  pleased  to  have 
her  visit  his  little  girl,  I  know." 

Mrs.  Irving  would  have  said  no,  but  the  large  brown  eyes 
of  Viola  were  upturned  with  such  a  look  of  anxious  appeal 
that  she  hesitated. 

"  Please,  let  her  go,"  said  the  child ;  "  we  will  be  very  good, 
and  I  want  to  show  Mr.  "Walsingham  what  a  dear  little  thing 
she  is !" 

The  mother's  heart  was  touched  by  the  unconscious  flattery, 
and  the  mother's  heart  was  stirred  for  the  lonely  child  so 
sweetly  pleading. 

When  Walsingham  entered  the  child's  room  that  night,  to 
take  a  good-night  look  at  hia  treasure,  there  were  two  fair 


EYRIE    LIFE.  67 

young  beads  upon  the  pillow — two  tiny  forms  nestling  in 
childish  embrace. 

The  next  day,  when  the  somewhat  anxious  Mrs.  Irving  drove 
to  the  Eyrie  to  reclaim  her  child,  she  was  charmed  by  the 
cordial  politeness  with  which  its  proprietor  thanked  her  for  the 
favour  of  Helen's  visit,  and  begged  that  she  would  soon  per- 
mit her  to  return. 

From  that  time  visits  were  constantly  interchanged  by  the 
little  people.  Mrs.  Irving  felt  the  liveliest  interest  in  Viola ; 
her  beauty  and  peculiarity,  as  well  as  her  desolate  condition, 
appealing  powerfully  to  the  prompt  sympathies  of  the  lady. 

No  pleasure  was  ever  prepared  for  her  own  children  that 
Viola  did  not  share ;  and  often,  in  arranging  some  pretty  gar- 
ment for  her  daughters,  she  thoughtfully  prepared  a  similar 
one  for  the  child  which  in  her  heart  she  had  adopted. 

Walsingham  recognised  in  her  those  qualities  which  he  had 
desired  to  shed  their  influence  around  the  life  of  Viola.  Her 
delicacy,  her  tact,  her  tenderness,  her  acute  perceptions,  ren- 
dered her  a  valuable  friend.  He  gradually  accustomed  him- 
self to  consult  her  womanly  judgment,  and  rely  upon  her 
advice  in  all  matters  pertaining  to  the  child. 

The  little  Irvings  were  all  fond  of  Viola.  Their  mother 
had  told  them  her  sad  little  history,  contrasting  it  with  their 
own  happy  lot.  They  were  taught  by  her  to  thank  the  Good 
Father  who  had  placed  them  in  a  loving  home,  and  to  show 
their  gratitude  by  kindness  to  the  little  unfortunate  :  and  of 
this  good  seed  some  fell  upon  good  ground,  and  some  fell 
among  thorns.  Viola's  name  was  so  often  used  in  their 


05  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

nursery  to  point  a  moral,  that  they  regarded  her  as  a  heroine 
of  romance.  Mary,  a  blue-eyed,  blue-veined,  womanly  little 
girl,  delighted  to  play  "  mother"  with  the  motherless  one,  and 
with  sober  mimicry  assumed  the  dignity  and  tenderness  of  a 
young  matron  toward  her  charge.  Howard,  a  headstrong, 
self-willed,  beautiful  boy,  insisted  upon  her  being  his  horse, 
his  dog,  his  anything,  so  that  he  engrossed  and  tyrannized 
over  her  to  the  exclusion  of  others. 

This  flattering  preference  was  attended  with  disagreeable 
consequences.  The  young  gentleman,  to  render  his  illusions 
perfect,  bestowed  upon  his  playmates  such  treatment  as  he 
considered  due  the  animals  they  represented.  More  than 
once,  when  running  in  harness  for  his  amusement,  did  Viola 
receive  such  blows  as  left  great  welts  upon  her  shoulders,  and 
sent  her  weeping  to  the  sympathizing  arms  of  her  little 
"mamma." 

"  Oh,  Howard !"  cried  Mary  upon  one  such  an  occasion, 
"  how  dare  you  be  so  cruel  ?  Look  how  you  have  hurt  her ; " 
and  she  showed  him  the  red  stripe  of  his  whip  on  her  pretty 
neck. 

His  face  flushed  with  shame;  but  it  was  not  in  embryo 
manhood  to  "make  an  acknowledgment.  On  second  thoughts 
he  perceived  that  he  was  the  aggrieved  party,  and  made  a 
decided  demonstration  of  resentment. 

"  She  ehaVt  be  my  pony  if  she  cries,"  said  the  young 
despot.  "  Pshaw  !  what  a  baby !" 

"  Because  you  struck  her,  naughty  boy  !" 


EYRIE    LIFE.  69 

"  She  was  my  pony,  and  I  had  a  right  to  strike  her !  I 
won't  let  you  play  any  more,  Cross-Patch." 

"  Poor  little  thing,  don't  cry !"  said  Mary,  tenderly  rocking 
her  in  her  arms;  "  there,  there — Howard,  she  is  so  little  and 
tender,  how  could  you  he  so  rough  I" 

"  I  was  only  in  play,  I  tell  you,  and  did  not  mean  to  hurt 
her.  She  always  ends  in  a  cry — she  did  the  last  time." 

"  Because  you  are  always  rude,  and  hurt  her.  You  did  this 
once  before,  and  mamma  thought  it  was  an  accident.  She 
told  you  to  he  careful,  as  she  would  punish  you  if  it  happened 
again.  Come,  kiss  her  and  tell  her  you're  sorry,  and  we  will 
not  say  anything  more  about  it." 

Viola  wiped  her  eyes  and  turned  her  lips  towards  him ;  but 
the  offended  majesty  of  boyhood  refused  the  proffered  con- 
ciliation, and  sulked  down  the  garden  walk  decapitating  the 
dahlias  of  which  mamma  was  proud. 

These  children  were  both  older  than  Viola.  Little  Helen, 
the  pet  and  plaything  of  the  household,  although  her  own  age, 
seemed  scarcely  a  companion  for  Viola.  Howard  alternately 
attracted  her  girlish  heart  by  his  sur*jrb  beauty,  and  repulsed 
by  his  inexplicable  perverseness.  Of  gentle,  loving  Mary 
she  was  most  fond. 


70  EROSANDANTEROS. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

PRATTLE. 

"But  through  the  morning  gate  of  beauty  goes 
Thy  pathway  to  the  land  of  knowledge." 

TIRED  with  play,  and  tormented  with  prickly-heat,  the 
child  Viola  sat  within  the  shaded  piazza,  and  wondered  why 
the  sky  was  so  hurnished,  the  earth  so  baked,  and  the  air  so 
still ;  why  her  own  little  heart  beat  so  faintly,  and  desire  had 
failed ;  why  Widow  White  eschewed  the  too  ardent  sunshine, 
and  Bully  Bluster  drooped  his  wings  dozily  upon  his  perch,  in 
peaceful  truce  with  pigeon  kind;  why  the  stilled  fowls  had 
betaken  themselves  to  unknown  depths  of  shade,  and  the  busy 
Eyrie  world  had  grown  so  strangely  solitary. 

It  was  very  oppressive  !  The  silence  and  solitude,  as  well 
as  the  heat,  and  Viola  believed  she  should  cry ;  no,  she 
wouldn't,  she  would  call  the  cat.  Chloe  came,  but  in  no 
better  mood  than  her  mistress.  She  laid  her  head  in  Viola's 
lap  with  a  ferocious  purr  which  seemed  to  say  "  noli  me  tan- 
gerc."  Viola  did  not  thus  inteipret  it,  and  by  way  of  inspirit- 


PRATTLE.  71 

ing  herself  and  her  feline  friend,  she  indulged  in  the  amiable 
pleasantries  of  tweaking  her  ears,  and  pulling  her  tail.  Then 
puss  drew  off  her  gloves  for  a  boxing  match,  and  showing 
teeth  and  nails  (the  only  specks  of  white  about  the  black 
beast),  assumed  a  look  that  of  itself  might  have  earned  her 
reputation  of  a  witch's  familiar.  Indignant  and  alarmed  at 
this  demonstration,  the  little  maiden  lismissed  her  favourite 
in  disgrace,  and  resigned  herself  again  to  solitude  and  silence. 
But  solitude  and  silence  are  obnoxious  to  little  maidens.  To 
our  little  maiden  they  were  especially  so;  and,  bethinking  her- 
self of  her  quondam  playfellows,  the  chickens,  she  sallied  out 
into  the  blistering  sunshine  in  search  of  them. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  Walsingham  through  the  blinds  of 
his  study  observed  her.  To  a  man  of  different  mould  she 
would  have  been  a  tired  child,  on  a  visit  to  certain  barnyard 
fowls,  attended  by  a  diabolical  black  cat,  "  and  nothing  more.  ' 

But  he  was  one  of  those  contemplative  and  imaginative  men 
to  whom  existence  is  twofold  and  doubly  bounteous.  For  such 
the  real  and  ideal  blend  their  varied  sweets;  like  travellers 
amid  the  profuse  vegetation  of  the  tropics,  they  gather  from 
the  same  bough  simultaneous  fruits  and  flowers.  He  had  a 
moment  before  looked  out  upon  the  midday  hush  of  nature, 
and  with  a  certain  gorgeousness  of  imagery  fancied  her  a 
beauteous  queen,  lapped  in  the  profound  quietude  of  an  en- 
chanted repose,  when  lo  !  to  the  disenthralment,  dissolving  the 
spell  by  a  more  potent  charm  of  her  own,  flitted  the  fay-like, 
ethereal  vhild. 

As  though  to  indulge  his  fan-.y  at  this  juncture,  the  ubiqui- 


72  EEOS    AND    ANTEROS. 

tous  inocldng-birds  took  upon  themselves  the  role  of  genii 
contending  for  their  endangered  spells.  With  arrowy  rush 
and  gliding  flight  they  boldly  intercepted  the  child,  and  filled 
the  air  with  cries  of  threatening  and  remonstrance.  Now 
pausing  on  the  rose  trees  in  her  path,  they  peered  audaciously 
in  her  face,  with  a  meaning  in  their  glittering  eyes  that 
seemed  almost  human ;  then  circling  about  her  like  winged 
serpents,  they  screamed  in  wrathful  clamour — chut — chut — 
twitter — twitter — mew — mew — mew. 

Viola  paused  in  alarm,  and  while  she  continued  motionless 
her  little  adversaries  were  silent.  Their  wary,  watchful  eyes 
were  fastened  on  her,  and  her  first  movement  toward  retreat 
was  checked  by  a  storm  of  wild  outcries. 

"  Certes,"  quoth  Walsingham,  hastening  to  the  rescue  of 
the  frightened  child,  "  these  wierd  birds  must  have  led  the 
concert  of  mocking  voices  on  the  enchanted  hill." 

"  What  do  they  say  ?  what  do  they  mean  ?"  exclaimed  Viola, 
as  she  hid  her  face  in  his  bosom. 

"  They  are  telling  my  little  girl  a  secret,"  said  he,  sooth- 
ingly, as  a  mother  might,  yet  with  a  touch  of  his  quaint 
fancy. 

The  child  upraised  her  face  and  smiled,  then  looked  troubled 
as  she  remembered  her  fright,  and  said  :  "  I  don't  want  them 
to  talk  to  me  that  way ; — but  I  wish  I  knew  the  secret." 

A  faint  expression  of  sarcasm  flitted  over  the  fine  face  of 
Walsingham  as  he  sa^d — 

"  What  a  notable  little  woman  you  arc,  to  look  so  closely 
after  a  secret !" 


PRATTLE.  73 

Viola's  little  heart  swelled  with,  pride,  for  she  thought  there 
was  something  extremely  complimentary  in  this.  Ambition 
was  not  so  busy  with  the  turbulent  elements  of  ,poets,  priests, 
warriors,  and  kings,  but  he  found  time  to  whisper  to  this 
gentle  one,  a  promise  of  triumphant  womanhood. 

"  Where  is  ray  little  girl  going  in  this  heat  ?" 

"  To  see  the  chickens." 

«  Call  them." 

Viola  called  as  she  was  bidden;  but  her  usually  prompt 
feathered  friends  did  not  appear.  A  low,  timid,  lugubrious 
chuckle,  was  heard  in  response,  however;  and  searching  in 
the  direction  of  the  sound,  Walsingham  found  the  flock 
ambushed  in  a  brush-heap. 

"  Your  pets  are  frightened,  as  well  as  yourself,"  said  Wals- 
ingham, as  he  returned  to  the  house  closely  attended  by  the 
audacious  and  vigilant  mocking-birds. 

Viola  having  procured  bread,  scattered  it  in  the  path  and 
called  encouragingly  to  her  chickens.  A  disheartened  murmur 
of  consultation  was  heard  among  them,  when  one  adventurous 
spirit  emerged  from  the  brush-heap  fortification,  and  proceeded  > 
to  regale  himself  upon  her  bounty.  With  the  flashing  fierce- 
ness of  enraged  eagles,  the  uncanny  birds  swooped  at  his  head, 
and  the  lubberly  poltroon  fled  to  cover,  as  fast  as  his  long 
limbs  would  carry  him. 

Wal.smgh.-ani  smiled  at  the  ludicrous  display  of  fierceness 
and  timidity,  while  Viola  exclaimed,  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
"  Oh,  why  do  they  do  so  ?" 

"  To  guard  the  secret." 
7 


74  EROS    AND    ANTERO8. 

"  What  can  the  secret  be  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  he. 

"  You  know  !  oh  how  did  you  find  it  out  ?  Tell  me  !  tell 
me !"  she  cried. 

"  Which  ?  the  secret,  or  how  I  found  it  out  ?" 

"  Both— but  the  secret  first." 

"  Well,  first  then,  Mr.  Mocking-bird  built  a  nest  in  the 
apple  tree,  and  Mrs.  Mocking-bird  placed  two  delicate  eggs 
therein.  These  were  their  beautiful  and  precious  treasures. 
She  pressed  them  close  to  her  warm  bosom  for  many  days, 
when  at  last  the  enamelled  walls  parted,  and  a  tiny  mocking- 
bird stepped  forth  to  life  from  each." 

"  Is  it  a  fairy  story?"  interrupted  the  child. 

"  What  is  a  fairy  story,  little  one  ?" 

"  A  fairy  story  is  something  wonderful  and  beautiful — just 
like  that." 

"Is  a  fairy  story  a  history  of  marvellous  and  impossible 
events,  accomplished  by  supernatural  agency  ?" 

The  child  did  not  reply  in  words :  perhaps  she  did  not 
quite  understand ;  but  a  conviction  that  it  must  be  as  he  had 
said,  impelled  her  to  execute  a  series  of  sagacious  nods,  with 
the  most  beautifully  poised  head  in  the  world. 

"  It  must  be  a  fairy  story  then,"  said  the  guardian,  "  for  it 
is  certainly  marvellous  that  a  bird  should  be  packed  in  a  ball 
no  bigger  than  a  hazel-nut.  The  mocking-birds  could  not 
have  placed  it  there  of  themselves." 

"  Couldn't  you  ?" 

"No,  I  could  not." 


PR  VTTLE.  75 

"  But  this  story  is  real,  and  fairy  stones  are  not !" 

"  Well,  then,  if  the  birds  are  not  able  to  do  this  thing  of 
themselves,  and  there  are  not  any  fairies  to  help  them,  how 
was  it  brought  about,  I  wonder  ?"  0 

"  God  must  have  helped  them/'  said  Viola,  "  for  He  can  do 
everything,  and  lie. is  real.  Is  this  the  secret?" 

"  Yes.  It  is  for  the  sake  of  those  little  ones  that  they  are 
jealous  of  every  living  thing  that  moves  across  their  garden 
world.  Affection  is  a  potent  agent  of  transformation  :  under 
the  influence  of  a  new  and  great  love  these  timid  birds  have 
grown  lion-hearted.  Yesterday  they  were  shy  and  gentle ;  to- 
day they  are  wrathful  and  bold." 

"  Oh,  they  are  dreadful  \"  said  the  child,  who  had  been 
thoroughly  alarmed  by  their  violent  demonstrations. 

"  They  would  be,"  said  her  guardian,  "  if  their  power 
equalled  their  will.  There  is  no  fierceness  so  terrible  in  bird, 
beast,  or  man,  as  that  which  is  rooted  in  affection." 

Much  of  this  was  above  the  child's  comprehension,  as  his 
remarks  often  were ;  but  her  growing  mind  reached  forth  its 
tendrils  to  grasp  his  meaning,  and  so  grew  upward  to  the 
light. 


EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER    X. 

CHILDISH. 

"  IF  Death  is  cruel,  Time  is  kind,"  said  Walsingharn,  turn- 
ing from  the  library  window.  "  I  thought,  Mrs.  Irving,  when 
I  saw  the  wild  grief  of  that  little  child  over  her  dying  mother, 
that  she  would  die  of  sorrow ',  and  now  look  !  a  happier  mote 
never  sported  in  the  sunshine  of  existence  !" 

"  There  is  so  much  hope  in  a  child's  heart  that  grief  is  not 
very  abiding,"  answered  the  lady. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  children,"  said  the  Captain, 
"  but,  by  Saturn's  self,  I  could*  devour  this  one !  If  they  are 
all  so  charming,  I  don't  understand  that  economy  of  nature 
which  permits  them  to  spindle  up  to  womanhood.  Beg  pardon, 
ma'am,"  he  added,  suddenly  remembering  he  had  been  guilty 
of  an  indiscretion. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Ben,  about  devouring  the  child  ?  I 
believe  you  have  been  so  much  among  cannibals  that  you 
would  ( grind  her  bones  to  make  your  bread.'  " 

"  She's  a  plump  little  thing,  and  would  be  tender  picking," 


CHILDISH.  77 

quoth  the  Captain  grimly.  "  And  who  knows  but  she  may 
come  to  a  worse  end  ?" 

Mrs.  Irving  layghed — "The  Captain  is  dispirited  by  the 
prospect  of  an  angelic  child  declining,  by  slow  degrees,  into  a 
faulty  woman/' 

"  Yes,  in  faith  !  I  shall  be  terribly  shy  of  .Viola,  if  she  ever 
reaches  that  dignity.  How  will  we  bachelors  manage  her?" 

"  I  give  myself  no  uneasiness  on  that  score,  expecting  to 
be  the  managed,"  said  Walsingham ;  "  I  advise  you  to  resign 
yourself  to  the  same  prospective  fate.  Perhaps  her  woman- 
hood will  reconcile  you  to  woman,  as  her  childhood  has  over- 
come your  horror  of  children.  When  Viola  first  came  to  the 
Eyrie,  he  was  more  afraid  of  her  than  a  pestilence,  and  now 
he  is  in  the  most  abject  servitude  to  her  whims." 

"  I  am  not  surprised.  Children  have  spells  and  enchant- 
ments of  their  own  by  which  they  work  their  will.  In  my 
creed  they  are  but  half  human." 

"  Pray  expound,  and  we  will  promise  to  be  stout  believers," 
petitioned  "Walsingham,  who  of  late  loved  to  hear  about  child- 
ren. 

"  I  have  often  thought,"  she  answered,  in  a  sweet  earnest 
womanly  way,  that  charmed  one,  perhaps  both  gentlemen,  "  I 
have  often  thought,  when  looking  into  the  face  of  an  infant, 
that  though  born  of  an  earthly  mother,  the  young  spirit  is 
born  of  God.  It  is  a  newly  created  angel  that  descends  from 
heaven  and  becomes  a  little  child." 

There  were  tears  in  Mrs.  living's  eyes  as  she  added, 
"  Those  to  whom  the  Father  lends  his  angels,  should  keep 


78  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

them  unspotted,  remembering  they  are  to  be  restored  to  the 
Hierarchy  of  Heaven." 

Meanwhile,  the  Captain,  who  was  not  of  a  speculative  turn, 
wandered  to  the  window  and  counted  the  fowls.  That  interest- 
ing family,  having  outgrown  the  graces  of  early  chickhood,  and 
degenerated  into  a  brood  of  tall,  gaunt  hobble-de-hoys,  were 
in  playful  pursuit  of  a  fat  grasshopper  in  seven-leagued  boots. 
Viola,  too,  joined  the  chase  with  great  ardour,  and  seemed  as 
likely  to  succeed  in  capturing  the  quarry  as  any  of  the  party, 
when  the  Captain  sunjmoned  her  to  the  library,  and  presented 
her  to  their  guest. 

Mrs.  Irving  received  her  with  motherly  caresses,  and  an- 
nounced that  the  object  of  her  visit  was  to  claim  her  for  a  few 
days.  Howard's  birth-day  was  to  be  celebrated  with  great 
festivity  on  the  morrow,  and  the  children  would  expect  Viola. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  little  lady,  shaking  her  curls,  "  I  would  love 
to  go,  but  I'm  afraid  I  cannot  leave  Mr.  Walsingham  so  long." 

Mr.  Walsingham  looked  flattered,  for  a  man  may  be  flat- 
tered by  a  child ;  and  the  Captain  declared  she  was  a  conceited 
little  puppet  to  suppose  that  her  littleship  was  of  any  conse- 
quence to  anybody;  and,  moreover,  an  ungrateful  lump  of 
granite  never  to  think  of  him,  when  he  should  fret  himself 
into  a  fever  while  she  was  away;  which  volley  of  abuse  was 
punctuated  by  sundry  uncouth  kisses  of  various  degrees,  an- 
swering to  comma,  colon,  period,  etc. 

"Why,  can't  you  leave  Mr.  Walsingham,  iny  dear?  I'm 
sure  he  would  like  you  to  go." 

"  Would  you  ?"  she  said,  appealing  to  him  with  a  doubtful 


CHILDISH.  79 

air.  "  Mrs.  Grey  says  you  are  lost  when  I  go  away,  and  I 
thought  I  would  stay  and  take  care  of  you." 

"  If  he  does  get  lost,  popinjay,  one  need  but  look  between 
the  covers  of  his  books  to  find  him ;  but  what  is  to  become  of 
an  old  sea-dog  like  myself,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  Who'll 
tell  Mrs.  Grey  what  I  like  for  dinner,  or  hunt  me  up,  if  I  for 
get  all  about  tea?  Who'll  take  pains  to  teach  me  the  com- 
fortable usages  of  middle-aged  gentlemen  in  the  matters  of 
dressing-gown  and  slippers  ?  Who'll  be  pertinacious  on  the 
subjects  of  tobacco  and  boots,  and  unceasing  in  her  efforts  to 
make  a  gentleman  of  me  like  yonder  model  man,  and  failing 
in  that,  to  save  me  from  the  consequences,  in  the  shape  of 
the  wrathful  Mrs.  Grey  ?  hey  ?" 

"  Never  mind,  uncle  Captain,"  said  the  important  little  lady 
in  a  tone  of  soothing.  "  Never  mind,  uncle  Captain,  I'll  stay 
with  you." 

"  That  will  not  be  necessary,"  interposed  the  guardian,  "  I'll 
have  an  eye  to  his  comfort,  and  superintend  his  reformation, 
while  you  are  gone ;  so  run  and  tell  Mrs.  Grey  to  equip  you." 

The  child  disappeared,  but  quickly  came  running  back. 

"  I'll  tell  you,  uncle  Captain  !"  said  she  brightly.  "  Do  all 
the  time  just  as  he  does,  and  then  Mrs.  Grey  will  love  you !" 

"Umph !"  growled  the  ungrateful  Captain,  "I  should  hang 
myself  at  the  yard-arm  if  she  did  !" 

It  was  not  until  Viola  had  been  absent  for  a  few  days,  that 
Walsingham  found  how  large  a  place  in  the  house  she  filled.  No 
musical  voice  filled  the  air  with  chimes,  no  little  footfall  woke 
the  Eyrie  echoes.  The  flowers  on  his  study  table,  sweet  dewy 


80  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

flowers  of  her  gathering,  grew  natseous  and  stale,  and  the  din- 
ner-table lacked  a  presence  more  piquant  than  sauce  or  condi- 
ment. 


Winter  closed  around  that  mountain  home,  but  Walsingham 
was  neither  moody  nor  lonely  as  of  yore.  There  was  a  bright 
presence  hovering  near  him,  smiling  eyes  looking  into  his  own, 
challenging  smiles  in  turn,  and  an  atmosphere  of  love  around 
him.  The  hitherto  sad  winter  twilights  were  filled  with  music. 
The  past  became  a  "  dead  past,"  and  was  buried  with  the  dead 
Viola,  while  the  precious  legacy  she  had  left  him  led  his 
thoughts,  as  childhood  ever  will,  to  the  promise  of  the  future. 
Life  had  now  an  aim — the  well-being  and  happiness  of  this 
beloved  child.  He  thanked  God  that  he  had  not  married,  and 
that  there  were  no  claims  upon  him  that  could  conflict  with, 
or  weaken  hers. 

And  how  shall  I  paint  the  love  and  reverence  for  him  that 
filled  the  child's  heart  ?  In  her  eyes  he  was  indeed  "  little 
lower  than  the  angels,  and  crowned  with  glory  and  honour." 
He  was  the  king  of  her  young  life,  who  could  do  no  wrong ; 
the  omnipotent,  whose  arm  could  never  fail ;  the  munificent 
genie,  who  surrounded  her  life  with  enchantments.  Oh,  the 
faith  of  loving  childhood,  which  thus  invests  its  guardians  with 
the  attributes  of  gods.  Alas  for  the  judgment  of  mature 
years,  before  which  the  illusive  and  imagined  perfections  van- 
ish as  mists  before  the  sun  !  and  alas  for  those  who  live  to  see 
their  little  ones  disenchanted  ! 


CHILDISH.  81 

Upon  these  proemial  chapters  I  have  lingered  too  long  for 
my  reader — not  long  enough  for  myself.  A  chiM's  prattle 
echoes  in  my  heart  with  which  I  would  fain  fill  pagea,  loving  as 
I  do  that  unconscious  wisdom  which  proceeds  from  the  mouths 
of  babes.  But  years  are  passing,  our  Viola  is  hastening  up  to 
womanhood,  and  we  must  travel  on  with  her. 


82  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

HOYDENISH. 

"The  wary  crow, — the  pheasant  from  the  woods — 
Lull'd  by  the  still  and  everlasting  sameness, 
Close  to  the  mansion  like  domestic  broods 
Fed  with  a  shocking  tameness." 

HAUNTED  HOUSE. 

AFTER  a  six  years'  cruise,  Captain  Ben  returned  to  find 
Viola  six  years  older,  at  which  he  stormed  most  terribly, 
calling  on  the  heathen  gods  in  a  manner  shocking  to  the  feel- 
ings of  any  who  maintained  a  decent  reverence  for  those  old 
divinities.  The  artful  Viola  contrived  to  appease  his  wrath, 
and  reconcile  him  to  the  new  phase  in  her  life  by  showing  off 
the  graces  of  twelve  years  old,  and  promising  she  would 
"  never  grow  any  more  as  long  as  she  lived ;  no,  never !" 
Which  promise  she  doubtless  kept  to  the  best  of  her  ability. 

"Well,  well,"  said  he,  considerately,  "if  she  has  grown 
tall  and  thin,  and  smoothed  her  curls  into  tails  like  John  Chi- 
naman's, and  dropped  her  lisp,  one  must  love  her,  notwith- 
standing." 


HOYDENISH.  03 

"  Viola  is  very  pretty,"  remarkel  Walsingham,  in  whose 
eyes  she  possessed  the  beauty  of  a  seraph. 

"  Humph  !  a  plain  little  nondescript,  neither  child  nor  wo- 
man !  I  always  knew  she  would  grow  up  !"  retorted  the  dis- 
satisfied captain. 

To  which  his  brother  replied,  "  You  were  very  sagacious." 

The  Captain,  finding  that  Viola  persisted  in  her  upward 
course,  despite  his  remonstrances,  and  her  promises  to  the 
contrary,  bethought  him  that  it  was  time  she  should  be  learn- 
ing something  that  would  be  useful  to  her  in  life. 

Recalling  with  pride  his  own  early  accomplishments,  he 
proceeded  at  once  to  initiate  her  in  the  mysteries  of  "  hunting, 
fishing,  and  war,"  as  the  school  books  have  it.  She  tramped 
valiantly  by  his  side  through  the  forests  of  the  Bluff,  where, 
if  a  squirrel  leaped,  or  a  bird  fluttered,  the  Captain  would 
transfer  his  fowling-piece  to  her  hands,  drop  on  one  knee 
before  her  that  she  might  rest  the  barrel  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  give  the  word — "  make  ready — take  aim— -fire  !" 

The  little  girl,  excited  by  the  novelty  of  her  pursuit  to 
bravery,  would  scatter  the  forest  leaves  with  her  shot — but 
bird  and  squirrel  escaped  unscathed.  In  fishing  she  was  more 
successful ;  and  often,  under  the  Captain's  supervision,  brought 
home  a  basket  of  fish  from  the  stream. 

So  thoroughly  versed  was  she  in  the  theory  of  naval  tactics, 
that  her  instructor  pronounced  her  "almost  fit  to  command  a 
man  o'  war."  To  increase  her  accomplishments  he  one  day 
pitched  her  into  the  river,  after  having  given  her  the  most 
accurate  and  scientific  verba  treatise  upon  the  art  of  swim- 


84  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

niing.  The  poor  victim  bobbed  about  in  helpl  ;ss  terror  until 
her  oppressive  protector  plunged  in  and  drew  her  forth  half 
drowned. 

This  adventure  coming  to  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Irving,  she  paid 
the  Eyrie  a  visit  of  remonstrance ;  upon  which  occasion  she 
conveyed  to  the  Captain's  mind  a  vague  impression  that  she 
was  incapable  of  appreciating  his  qualifications  as  an  instructor 
of  youth,  of  the  softer  SBX. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  approve  of  Viola's  learning 
to  swim?"  he  cried.  "Why,  d —  no!  bless  you,  it's  a  most 
necessary  bit  of  knowledge,  and  may  save  her  life  some 
day.  Let  me  tell  you,  madam,  if  you  don't  know  how  to 
swim  yourself,  your  early  education  has  been  very  much 
neglected." 

"  I  would  rather  die  than  learn." 

"  In  the  name  of  Mars,  what  would  you  have  me  do  ?"  he 
broke  forth.  "  Teach  her  knitting,  netting,  and  crochet  ? 
Jupiter  Ammon!  I  must  learn  myself,  first.  By  Vulcan's 
self,  if  she  expects  to  learn  from  me,  she  must  be  content 
with  the  knowledge  I  possess  !" 

"  Now,  in  the  name  of  all  the  Gods  at  once !"  interposed 
Walsingham,  laughing,  "  don't  you  think  Vulcan's  self  would 
be  as  suitable  for  a  preceptor  of  ladies?  Yet  we  nowhere 
read  of  his  attempting  to  impart  to  Venus  (or  any  other 
female  mind  over  which  he  exerted  influence)  the  mysteries 
of  the  smithy !" 

"  A  worthy  example,"  quoth  the  culprit  Captain.  "  Hence- 
forth I  shall  keep  my  stupendous  knowledge  for  individual 


HOYDENISH.  85 

use,  and  abandon  the  project  of  making  a  Leander  out  of  that 
squeamish  pigeon's  heart/' 

"  Or  a  Nimrod,"  suggested  Mrs.  Irving. 

"  Or  a  Walton,"  added  Walsingham. 

"  Yes,  yes  !"  replied  the  ill-used  sailor ;  "  but,  by  George  ! 
my  teachings  are  as  useful  as  your  own,  Arthur.  What 
earthly  advantage  is  she  to  derive  from  your  Latin  conjugations, 
I  would  like  to  know  ?" 

Walsingham  appealed  to  Mrs.  Irving  in  defence  of  his 
teaching,  but  that  lady  did  not  approve  of  Latin  for  Viola  at 
present.  She  was  very  young,  and  had  much  to  learn,  of 
which  Latin  seemed  to  be  the  least.  She  was  a  fragile  flower, 
and  too  much  application,  too  many  studies,  might  impair  her 
health  and  spirits — therefore  Latin  had  better  be  laid  aside 
for  the  present. 

"  Ho,  ho,  ho  I"  laughed  the  Captain,  restored  to  good 
humour  by  this  condemnation  of  his  brother's  instruction. 
"  Break  the  spirit,  indeed !"  and  he  roared  again  with  boister- 
ous hilarity. 

"  I  don't  think  her  spirit  is  quite  spoiled  yet !  Did  you 
hear  how  she  horsewhipped  young  Tonks  last  week  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Irving,  nervously. 

"Why,  you  see,"  replied  Captain  Ben,  rising  with  the 
excitement  of  a  narrator,  "  we  drive  a  good  deal  around  the 
country  with  the  new  grays;  that  is,  she  drives,  and  I  go 
along  to  insure  the  safety  of  the  concern." 

"  She  drives  ?" 

"Yes,  superbly!     I  taught  her  myself ,     Last  week  we 


86  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

stopped  at  Tonks's  house  on  some  business  for  Mrs.  Grey.  I 
was  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  town  before  the  mail  closed,  and  find- 
ing we  would  be  detained,  I  told  the  child  I  would  walk  on, 
and  she  should  drive  after,  when  she  got  through  with  her 
affairs." 

1  Good  heavens,  Ben  !  with  those  restive  animals?" 
<(  Playful,  only  playful,  and  innocent  as  lambs.  Young 
Tonks  officiously  took  them  out  of  harness;  and  when  Viola 
was  ready  he  had  the  pleasure  of  tackling  them  up  again. 
The  horses  capered  a  good  deal,  and  they  tried  to  detain  the 
child  until  I  should  return ;  but  she  said  she  had  been  told  to 
drive  on,  and  she  would  do  it — she  knew  I  would  wait  until 
she  did — that  the  horses  were  not  dangerous,  and  she  could 
manage  them.  '  Now.  sir,'  said  she,  in  her  soft  way,  to  young 
Tonks,  as  he  stood  holding  their  heads.  'When  I  am  in, 
pray  don't  hold  the  horses,  for  they  won't  bear  it.'  The  old 
man  lifted  her  in,  and  the  moment  the  beasts  felt  her  weight 
in  the  carriage,  they  began  to  plunge  and  struggle.  '  Let  go,' 
cried  Viola,  as  she  gathered  up  the  reins.  '  Hold  on,'  shouted 
the  old  man  in  terror.  '  Let  go,  and  there  is  no  danger,' 
implored  the  child.  '  Hold  on,  hold  on,  for  mercy's  sake,' 
roared  old  Tonks,  and  the  young  un  held  on  like  a  lobster  to 
a  cat's  paw,  while  the  frantic  beasts  reared,  lifting  their  tor- 
mentor from  his  feet.  At  this  moment  Viola  thought  of  a 
means  of  delivering  herself  from  the  peril.  Abandoning  her 
unheeded  beseechings,  she  stood  up  in  the  curricle.  Drawing 
her  tiny  figure  to  its  full  height,  with  reins  gathered  resolutely 
in  one  hand,  and  whip  in  the  other,  she  laid  the  lash  smartly 


HOYDEN'SH.  87 

about  the  head  and  face  of  her  stupid  detainer.  Startled  and 
stung  by  this  attack  he  instinctively  recoiled,  and  the  horses 
thundering  down  the  road  dashed  into  the  bridge,  where, 
feeling  the  planks  under  their  feet,  the  noble  old  thorough- 
breds fell  into  the  prescribed  walk,  with  a  regard  for  the 
supremacy  of  the  law  that  entitles  them  to  the  respect  of  *11 
good  citizens." 

"  This  cannot  be  true,  Captain  "Walsingham  1"  said  Mrs. 
Irving,  looking  very  white;  "you  arc  amusing  yourself  at  our 
expense." 

"  Ask  old  Tonks  !  He  says  he  never  was  so  frightened  in 
his  life  as  when  he  saw  the  impatient  animals  leap  off.  He 
ran  after  to  pick  up  the  child  when  the  concern  should  be 
dashed  to  pieces ;  but  when  he  heard  the  slow  tramp  of  the 
animals'  hoofs  in  the  bridge,  he  thought  '  the  gal  knowcd  de 
hosses  and  de  hosscs  Tcnowed  de  gal ;'  and  so  he  returned,  lit 
hi?  pipe,  and  took  a  smoke  upon  it." 

"  I  am  amazed  that  you  should  have  been  so  fool-hardy !" 
exclaimed  Walsingham,  in  displeasure. 

"Me  fool-hardy?  bless  you!  'twas  young  Tonks/'  said  the 
incorrigible  old  salt. 

"Mrs.  Irving,"  cried  Walsingham,  "tell  me  what  I  am  to 
do  with  the  poor  child." 

Mrs.  Irving  answered  as  though  her  mind  had  been  settled 
upon  that  point  long  before,  that  she  thought  Viola  should  be 
sent  to  school. 

"  I  have  an  aversion  to  boarding-schools,  and  should  prefer 
a  governess." 


88  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  Captain  Ben;  "your  candour  is 
quite  refreshing.  Let  us  have  a  governess  for  ourselves  im- 
mediately." 

Mrs.  Irving  smiled,  while  Walsingham  laughed  outright. 
"I  see,"  said  he,  "a  legion  of  lions  in  the  way." 

"  I  really  think,"  sajid  Mrs.  Irving  persuasively,  "  that  a 
boarding-school  would  be  better  for  Viola  than  the  best 
governess.  She  is  a  singularly  unsophisticated  and  unworldly 
child,  and  needs  that  contact  with  children  of  her  own  age 
which  will  fit  her  for  intercourse  with  the  world." 

"  Those  qualities  in  my  little  girl's  character  possess  for  me 
a  wonderful  charm.  Why  should  I  expose  her  to  a  discipline 
which  will  impair  them  ?" 

"  They  are  beautiful  in  the  child,  but  dangerous  to  the 
woman.  Viola  will  be  a  woman  soon,  and  it  is  better  she 
should  know  something  of  the  world  in  miniature,  before  she 
enters  upon  its  real  life.  She  will  not  lose  her  own  beautiful 
individuality,  nor  will  she  grow  worldly  when  she  knows  the 
world.  Contact  with  evil  will  not  harm  her,  because  she  has 
no  affinity  with  it.  It  passes  from  her  pure  nature  like  water 
from  the  breast  of  a  swan." 

"  By  Jupiter !  madam,  you're  a  sensible  woman  after  all  I" 
shouted  the  impulsive  Captain. 

Mrs.  Irving  was  one  of  those  low-voiced,  persuasive  women, 
who  pass  through  life  for  ever  having  their  own  way.  They 
never  conceive  a  project  that  they  do  not  carry;  they  ncv;-r 
advocate  a  measure  that  docs  not  succeed.  When  Mrs.  Irving 
said,  "  Don't  you  think,  my  dear,  vou  ha J  better  do  this  ?  01 


HOYDENI8H. 

that?"  you  were  sure  to  think  so;  or  if  you  did  not  so  think 
then,  you  did  ten  minutes  afterward,  and  you  did  ten  years 
after.  There  was  an  infallibility  about  the  woman. 

"  I  have  resolved  to  send  Viola  to  school,"  said  Walsing- 
ham,  on  the  morrow,  to  Mr.s.  Grey. 

"  Now  look  at  that !"  said  Mrs.  Grey,  in  turn  to  Chloe. 
"Yesterday,  when  I  told  Mrs.  Irving  about  the  Captain 
throwing  of  Miss  Viola  into  the  water,  she  said,  {  Mrs.  Grey, 
this  will  never  do !  that  child  must  go  to  school ;'  and  she  put 
on  her  things  and  rode  home  with  me,  pussy;  by  which  I 
knew  the  thing  was  fixed.  I'll  declare  that  woman  rules 
affairs  here  just  as  she  does  at  home;  and,  although  we  live 
with  Mr.  Walsiugham,  Mrs.  Irving  is  our  mistress.  Get  out, 
Cuff!  You're  Mrs.  Irving's  dogj  too,  although,  like  a  stupid 
brute,  you  don't  know  it." 

Poor  Mrs.  Grey  was  restive  under  this  counter-influence  in 
her  domain.  The  "thing  was  faced,"  as  she  said.  Viola  was 
to  be  placed  under  the  care  of  one  Madame  De  Fleury,  in  a 
distant  metropolis,  who  was,  as  you  might  gather  from  herv 
prospectus,  an  admirable  Crichton  in  petticoats,  able  and 
willing  to  impart  all  the  gifts  of  nature,  and  accomplishments 
of  art,  for  a  given  amount  of  filthy  lucre. 

During  the  years  to  t>e  spent  by  Viola  at  school,  Walsing- 
hain  determined  to  travel.  The  Captain  would  sail  again  ere 
long,  and  he  resolved  to  cross  the  ocean  with  him,  and  after- 
ward follow  the  guidance  of  his  errant  fancy.  In  a  short  time 
the  Eyrie  was  deserted. 
8* 


90  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

* 

More  wierd-like  than  ever  seemed  this  house  set  upon  a  hill, 
when  its  doors  closed  upon  the  departing  inmates,  and  silence 
and  solitude  divided  the  realm.  As  years  passed,  the  bats 
and  the  owls  built  their  nests  in  its  porches,  and  the  wild  birds 
reared  their  young  beneath  its  eaves,  while  desolation  and 
decay  filled  its  pleasant  places.  But  still  it  reared  its  bold 
front  to  the  sky,  and  spread  abroad  its  walls  to  the  storm, 
and  stood  defiant,  like  a  giant  in  his  fastness ! 


A    LOAN    RECALLED  91 


CHAPTER   XII. 

A  LOAN  RECALLED. 

"  Oh,  very  gloomy  is  the  House  of  Woe, 
Where  tears  are  falling  while  the  bell  is  knelling, 
With  all  the  dark  solemnities,  that  show- 
That  Death  is  in  the  dwelling." 

HAUNTED  HOUSE. 

MARY  IRVING  was  now  a  tall,  fragile  girl.  She  had  always 
been  a  delicate  child ;  but  her  form  seemed  more  slender,  her 
cheek  more  pale,  and  the  blue  veins  more  distinct  upon  her 
temples  than  ever.  She  was  wearied  after  slight  effort,  and 
no  longer  cared  for  play. 

Her  father  called  her  his  sedate  little  girl — his  Minerva  j 
and  said  she  grew  more  womanly  every  day.  But  Mrs.  Irving 
regarded  her  with  a  troubled  heart,  fearing  that  womanhood 
might  never  dawn  upon  this  dear  child. 

Very  dear  she  was  to  both  parents,  but  especially  to  the 
father.  The  mother's  heart  was  equally  divided  among  her 
children  '}  but  to  his  first-born  he  accorded  the  largest  share 
of  that  sweet  fountain  of  affection  which  she  had  opened  in 


92  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

• 

his  heart.  She  was  most  like  her  mother,  and  dear  in  propor- 
tion as  that  mother  was  dear.  The  delicacy  of  her  face  and 
figure ;  the  softness  of  her  movements,  no  less  than  her  tender, 
loving  nature,  appealed  to  his  manliness  for  love  and  shelter. 

Helen  had  grown  rosy  and  hoydenish ;  every  body  laughed 
at  and  spoiled  her,  except  Howard,  who  spoiled  no  one  out 
himself.  He  was  his  own  especial  pet.  Proud,  passionate, 
and  turbulent  was  he,  with  a  splendour  of  beauty  like  a 
rebellious  angel. 

He  was  endowed  with  great  gifts,  for  good  or  evil,  and  his 
mother  felt  the  serious  responsibilities  attaching  to  the  posses- 
sion of  a  child  like  this.  She  sacrificed  much,  and  endured 
more  for  him,  striving  the  while  to  cultivate  his  affections, 
sharpen  his  moral  perceptions,  and  strengthen  his  principles  j 
sometimes  her  heart  glowed  with  a  prophecy  of  his  greatness, 
while  at  others  it  shrank  from  the  contemplation  of  his  doubt- 
ful manhood.  Through  all,  she  diligently  sowed  good  seed, 
and  waited  the  result. 

Time  moved  on,  the  air  filled  with  frost,  the  river  congealed, 
and  earth  was  winter-bound.  Mrs.  Irving's  usually  serene 
heart  was  filled  with  appalling  apprehensions,  for  a  deadlier 
frost  was  blighting  the  fairest  flower  that  ever  bloomed  for 
her. 

Mary's  debility  increased.  She  loved  to  lie  all  day  upon 
the  sofa  in  her  mamma's  room,  listening  to  old  ballads,  or 
hymns,  that  her  mother  would  repeat  for  her  beguilcmcr.t. 
Mrs.  Irving  was  surprised  to  find  how  her  memory  was  ^tored 
with  these  gems  of  poesy.  Poetic  legends,  read  and  forgotten 


A    LOAN    RECALLED.  93 

• 

long  ago,  seemed  to  return  in  her  need,  and  pour  from  her 
lips  without  any  mental  effort  of  her  own.  It  seemed  as  if 
all  her  mind  had  ever  rested  upon  had  become  its  own — and 
from  its  vast  treasure-house  she  drew  forth  rich  stores  for  the 
gratification  of  her  sick  child. 

Alas,  poor  mother !  'twas  with  a  breaking  heart  she  spoke  ! 

Disease  dealt  gently  with  his  young  victim.  As  her  phy- 
sical energies  decayed,  her  mind  brightened,  reaching  to  the 
companionship  of  her  elders.  Conversations  with  this  dear 
child  became  the  sole  pleasure  of  the  apprehensive  mother. 
The  reflections  of  her  pure  mind  were  fraught  with  quaint 
and  startling  wisdom.  Many  of  her  expressions,  simple  yet 
wonderful,  were  treasured  in  the  mother's  memory,  and  when 
the  time  c*me,  as  come  it  did,  that  she  felt  herself  to  be  the 
mother  of  an  angel,  she  pondered  these  sayings  in  her  heart, 
as  did  that  Blessed  Maiden  who  performed  the  office  of  mater- 
nity to  Divinity. 

Mary's  bed  was  removed  from  the  nursery,  and  placed 
beside  her  mother's.  The  anxious  woman  lay  nightly  with 
her  child's  small  hand  clasped  in  her  own,  that  even  in  sleep 
she  might  not  lose  the  consciousness  of  that  fast-fleeting  pre- 
sence. If  the  child  waked  she  knew  it  instantly,  and  awaken- 
ing also,  beguiled  with  converse, — oh;  how  touching  and  holy ! 
— the  watches  of  the  night. 

"  Oh,  Mary,  darling,  I  wish  I  could  see  you  sleep  !"  she 
cried  one  night,  when  for  hours  she  had  watched  the  un- 
earthly gleam  of  the  child's  eye. 

"  Do  not  lie  awake  for  me,  icamma.     I  am  not  lonely  now. 


94  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

The  air  seems  filled  with  something — I  cannot  tell — something 
peaceful  and  happy." 

Did  her  spiritual  ken  dimly  recognise  the  presence  of  God's 
invisible  angels  ?  The  mother  thought  so,  and  hastily  attired 
herself. 

Soft  as  a  summer  twilight  she  faded  from  the  earth,  and 
through  the  night  of  grief,  that  darkly  closed  around  the 
bereaved,  the  memory  of  her  lovely  life  shone  like  a  star. 
****** 

The  strong  heart  of  the  father  seemed  impotent  in  grief, 
but  the  weak  mother  was  strong  in  Christian  faith. 

"  Why  was  she  given  us,"  he  groaned,  in  rebellious  anguish,- 
"to  be  so  soon  recalled  !  Oh,  that  she  had  never  been  born  !" 

"  Not  so,"  said  the  mother,  chastened  tears  filling  her  meek 
eyes.  "  Her  daily  life  was  a  blessing,  for  which  I  thank  my  God, 
and  although  its  continuance  has  been  withheld,  I  cannot  feel 
the  less  grateful.  We  have  lost  our  child,  but  to  have  once  pos- 
sessed her,  to  have  had  her  in  our  midst  for  a  brief  space,  an 
angel  messenger,  unsealing  fountains  of  feeling  in  our  hearts 
which  must  henceforth  flow  heavenward :  this  has  been  one  of 
God's  signal  blessings  on  our  lives.  He  has  recalled  his  own, 
leaving  us  bereaved ;  but  the  remembrance  of  her  lovely  life 
shall  beautify  our  own,  and  the  thought  that  by  her  brief  and 
peaceful  mission  here,  she  has  won  Heaven's  eternity,  is  one 
which  yearning  love  may  feed  upon  in  thankfulness." 

"  God  hath  granted  you  a  clearer  faith,  because  you  arc  of 
purer  heart,"  he  answered. 


A    LOAN    RECALLED.  95 

"  My  faith  is  clear/'  she  said.  "  Heaven  seems  so  near, 
since  it  hath  become  the  home  of  my  child.  I  humbly  exult 
in  the  thought  that  one  of  its  brightest  angels  shall  meet  me 
at  the  threshold  of  light,  as  I  go  hence,  and  hail  me  '  mo- 
ther.' " 

"  Teach  me,  to  feel  as  you  do/'  he  cried,  laying  his  head 
upon  her  bosom,  and  abandoning  himself  to  grief.  "  The 
constant  cry  of  my  heart  is,  give  her  back,  oh,  give  her  back 
to  me." 

"  Hush  !"  she  said,  smoothing  his  brow  with  her  cool  fingers ; 
and  his  grief  was  hushed  by  her  soft  voice  and  touch. 

"  I  loved  her  as  tenderly,  I  miss  her  precious  presence  more 
keenly  than  you  can  do,  yet  I  dare  not  wish  for  her  recall. 
If,  like  the  Shunamite  woman,  I  had  influence  with  God  to 
win  the  revocation  of  His  decree,  I  should  hesitate  to  speak 
the  word  that  would  recall  my  child.  Think — think  of  the 
toil,  the  travail,  the  care,  the  anguish,  the  temptation,  the 
besetting  sins  of  life,  that  rage  in  vain  along  her  earthward 
path,  while  her  serene  soul  securely  folds  its  wings  in  Heaven. 
The  loss  is  ours  only;  can  we  not  be  comforted  by  the  know- 
ledge of  our  darling's  great  gain  ?  or  is  our  love  so  selfish  that 
it  would  seek  to  pluck  her  down  from  heaven  to  gild  our  path, 
or  share  its  darkness  ?" 

"  How  differently  we  think  of  our  dead  child  !"  he  said,  with 
a  sigh.  "To  me,  she  died  and  was  buried;  to  you,  she  died 
and  was  beatified.  My  heart  follows  the  body  mourning; 
your  soul  soars  after  her  soul  rejoicing.  I  picture  her  childish 
beauty,  coffinci  and  delivered  over  to  the  corruption  of  the 


96  EROS    AND     ANTEROS. 

charnel ;  you  penetrate  beyond  things  seen,  and  behold  her  an 
immortal.  I,  too,  believe  in  the  life  hereafter;  but  ruy  belief 
is  an  abstraction — yours  a  realization  !" 

"  The  immortality  of  the  soul !  Immortality  f  Men  have 
not  all  believed  this  ?" 

"  Those  who  doubt  the  immortality  of  the  soul  have  not 
been  blessed  in  the  death  of  their  beloved,"  she  answered 
simply. 

"  What  mean  you  ?" 

"I  mean,  they  have  not  stood  as  I  have  done  by  the  de- 
parting, and  listened  to  the  revealings  of  an  unfaltering  spirit, 
made  through  failing  flesh.  They  have  not  witnessed  those 
blessed  transitions  which,  more  than  reason,  carry  convictions 
of  immortality.  If  I  had  been  a  pagan  mother,  unconscious 
of  immortality,  a  revelation  of  life  hereafter  would  have 
dawned  on  my  darkened  mind  by  the  death-bed  of  my  child. 
I  should  have  felt  that  the  principle  of  life  was  not  quenched, 
but  departed.  Oh,  yes;  Death  is  the  most  impressive  teacher 
of  immortality." 

He  bowed  his  head,  musing  upon  her  words ;  for  on  themes 
like  these,  women  are  often  teachers.  Presently  he  solilo- 
quized, in  broken  sentences,  "Who  shall  control  his  belief? 
Is  not  faith  a  gift  of  God  ?  It  cometh  like  the  wind,  one 
knoweth  not  whence;  but  happy  the  heart  on  which  it 
breathes.  Wise  men  have  survived  the  death  of  their  dear- 
est, and  with  far-reaching  intellect  have  scanned  all  space, 
hoping  to  pierce  Heaven's  mysteries,  yet  have  not  learned  this 
simple  creed  so  full  of  consolation.  Vain — dark — ' 


A    LOAN    RECALLED.  97 

"  Mary,"  lie  continued,  rousing  from  revery,  "  God  still 
spares  my  choicest  blessing  in  you,  and  if  he  withholds  from 
my  grosser  mind  that  faith,  thrice  blessed,  which  robs  bereave- 
ment of  its  pangs,  he,  at  least,  vouchsafes  me  strength  to 
wrestle  and  endure." 

"Be  patient,  my  husband,  and  time  will  bring  you  light." 


EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

CHANGE. 

VIOLA  !  Poor  Viola  !  What  a  shipwreck  of  joyous  child- 
hood was  her  transition  from  a  realm  of  affluent  life,  to  the  bald 
existence  of  a  boarding-school !  The  secluded  home  upon  a 
mountain  top  had  teemed  with  companionship,  but  the  crowded 
school-room  was  a  solitude.  Throughout  all  nature  a  Pente- 
cost had  reigned  for  this  imaginative  child.  The  leaves  of 
the  forest  were  whispering  tongues  to  her,  and  the  winds  of 
the  mountain,  murmured  in  chorus,  to  the  music  swelling  in 
her  soul.  Cunning  to  interpret  the  voices  of  the  wilderness, 
she  sat  down  in  the  school-room  in  dumb  despair,  as  might  the 
architect  of  Babel,  amid  the  primal  confusion  of  tongues; 
an  unsophisticated  child  amid  child  worldlings;  a  quick, 
untrammelled  intelligence,  abashed  in  the  presence  of  trained 
stupidity. 

The  children  in  Madame  de  Floury' s  establishment  (I  ask 
pardon,  there  was  nought  savouring  of  childhood  there,  unless 
it  might  be  a  lingering  taste  for  bonbons),  the  young  ladles, 
presented  the  same  variety  of  character  you  will  meet  at  Mrs, 


CHANGE.  99 

De  Smyth's  ball.  There  were  vain,  silly  misses;  pert,  for- 
ward misses;  haughty,  arrogant  misses;  and  humble,  toad- 
eating  misses.  (Fancy  a  child  veiling  the  transparency  of 
childhood  with  toadyism  !)  There  were,  here  and  there,  sensi- 
ble misses,  but  they  did  not  appear  to  any  better  advantage 
than  does  the  excellent  Mrs.  Homemade,  at  the  brilliant  assem- 
blage to  which  we  have  before  alluded.  Their  plain  gifts  were 
unsuited  to  their  present  sphere,  and  they  shrank  in  corners 
as  if  they  were  ashamed.  Had  they  read  Shakspeare,  they 
would  have  been  ready  to  exclaim  with  the  melancholy 
Jaques,  "  Motley's  the  only  wear." 

There  were  also,  enthusiastic  misses,  but  they  expended 
their  raptures  upon  such  articles  of  dry  goods  as  are  devised 
from  time  to  time  for  the  beguilement  of  the  female  mind,  or 
the  ''elegant,"  "splendid,  " glorious"  opera  to  which  mamma 
took  them  upon  her  birthnight.  On  these,  and  similar  excit- 
ing topics,  they  exhausted  their  vocabulary  of  superlatives. 

"The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man,"  sang  the  poet. 
In  Madame  De  Fleury's  establishment  Viola  made  some  pro- 
gress in  this  branch  of  knowledge,  albeit  not  specified  in  that 
lady's  prospectus.  The  deceitful,  cringing,  arrogant,  preten- 
tious world  was  before  her,  and  first  in  shocked  amaze,  then 
in  proud  contempt  she  surveyed  it. 

Mrs.  Irving  was  right  in  saying  she  had  no  affinity  with 
evil.  Her  instincts  revolted  against — her  moral  culture  ele- 
vated her  above  it ;  and  so,  uncontaminated  by  the  examples 
around  her,  she  held  on  her  own  pure  path.  She  quietly  pre- 
sented her  simple  composition,  knowing  that  some  of  the 


100  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

finest  paragraphs  from  the  Spectator  would  be  found  in  the 
lists  against  her.  She  laboured  over  her  exercises,  unseduced 
by  the  fairest  copies  surreptitiously  obtained  from  the  teacher's 
key.  She  did  not  feel  the  slightest  inovings  of  tenderness  for 
Miss  White,  although  she  came  to  school  every  morning  in  a 
carriage ;  nor  did  the  faded  ribbons  on  Miss  Jones's  bonnet 
awaken  a  desire  to  make  mouths  at  the  wearer. 

Oh  school !    Oh  Pandemonium  ! 

A  faint  effort,  was  made  by  the  amiable  young  herd,  to  set 
the  new-comer  up  as  a  butt.  It  was  abandoned  immediately, 
on  the  simultaneous  discovery  of  her  own  excellencies,  and  her 
guardian's  wealth.  So  surely  must  merit  command  respect, 
nay,  worship,  if  placed  on  a  golden  pedestal. 

In  time,  the  bachelor's  ward  became  accustomed  to  the 
treadmill  life,  and  familiar  with  the  jargon  of  schools.  She 
became  accomplished  in  music,  proficient  in  languages,  and 
familiar  with  more  "  ologies"  than  I  would  care  to  enumerate. 
In  the  attainment  of  these  desirable  perfections,  "  a  world  of 
happy  days"  and  much  of  her  beautiful  individuality  wns 
sacrificed.  The  exuberance  of  the  wild  vine  was  pruned, — 
so  skilfully  that  none  perceived  its  bleeding.  And,  lo !  a 
child  who  coxild  eat,  drink,  sleep,  speak,  and  move,  like  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  other  children !  So  much  for  the 
seeming,  but  I  doubt  me,  if  the  little  heart  beat  quite  as 
equally. 

The  happiest  moments  of  her  life  were,  when  she  received 
a  closely-written  packet  from  Walsingham,  or  a  kind  inothcrly 
letter  from  Mrs.  Irving.  Upon  these  crumbs,  her  affections 


CHANGE.  101 

fed.  At  the  end  of  three  years,  a  great  pleasure  was  promised 
her,  in  the  companionship  of  her  old  playfellow,  Helen.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Irving  brought  her  to  New  York,  and  the  delighted 
Viola  dined  with  them,  supped  with  them,  saw  sights  with 
them,  until  their  stay  was  ended,  and  then  she  took  the  poor, 
forlorn  little  Helen  under  her  protection  at  Madame  Fleury's. 
How  she  petted,  and  caressed,  her  new-found  friend  !  How 
she  listened  to  her  sad  stories  of  poor  Mary,  or  anecdotes  of 
Howard,  and  questioned  her  about  the  Eyrie,  the  river,  and 
the  town !  How  she  comforted  her  home-sickness,  and  pro- 
mised her  speedy  deliverance  when  Mr.  Walsingham  should 
come !  A  desirable  event,  that  for  the  last  two  years  of  her 
life,  had  seemed  immediately  at  hand.  Poor  little  hoping 
heart !  two,  three,  four  years  passed,  and  still  he  came  not. 


102  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

NEWS. 

GENTLE  little  Mrs.  Irving  sat  in  her  summer-house,  busied 
with  needle-work,  when  she  heard  the  quick  tread  of  her  hus- 
band on  the  gravel-walk.  "Has  anything  happened?"  she 
inquired,  with  some  solicitude,  as  he  entered,  for  he  was  one 
of  those  business  men  who  rarely  seek  their  homes  in  busi- 
ness hours. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  smiling,  "I  am  horridly  jealous:  look  at 
that  \"  and  he  held  up  a  letter,  directed  to  Mrs.  Irving,  in  an 
unfamiliar,  manly  hand. 

"  You  were  very  good  to  come  home  on  purpose  to  bring  it," 
she  said,  holding  out  her  hand  to  receive  it. 

"Not  at  all;  I  was  too  curious  to  wait,  and  came  home  an 
hour  before  my  time  to  learn  who  has  had  the  audacity  to  write 
to  my  little  wife." 

"  What  a  dear,  good,  stupid  husband,  not  to  know  that  it  is 
from  Walsingham,  announcing  his  intended  return !"  she  said, 
as  she  surveyed  the  superscription. 


NEWS.  103 

"  What  a  sharp-eyed,  clever  little  wife,  to  read  it  without 
breaking  the  seal  I" 

"That  is  easily  done;  don't  you  see  it  is  marked  'ship/  and 
as  Mr.  "Walsingharn  is  the  only  acquaintance  I  have  on  the 
other  side  of  the  water,  it  can  only  be  from  him.  As  he  has 
never  written  to  me  before  during  his  absence,  I  suppose  it 
heralds  his  return." 

"I  had  almost  forgotten  that  such  a  man  had  ever  lived; 
but  then  I  never  knew  him  as  you  did.  By  the  way,  it  was 
singular  that  you  should  have  formed  an  intimacy,  with  a 
man  whom  nobody  knew." 

Mrs.  Irving  heard  the  last  sentence,  although  immersed  in 
her  letter,  and  answered  quietly — 

"  It  was  the  children,  you  know." 

As  Mr.  Irving  contemplates  his  wife,  he  affords  us  an  oppor- 
tunity of  examining  him  closely.  Standing  by  her,  he  looks  like 
a  tower  of  strength,  in  which  the  little  lady  may  put  her 
trust — a  tall,  sinewy  man,  with  broad  breast,  ample  brow,  and 
open  countenance,  over  which  a  clear,  full,  gray  eye  sheds 
warmth,  and  light.  Although,  neither  handsome  in  appear- 
ance, nor  elegant  in  manners,  there  is  that  in  both  appearance 
and  manner  which  commands  respect.  He  is  not  social, 
owing  partly  to  the  engrossing  nature  of  his  pursuits,  and 
therefore  is  seldom  seen  in  society  where  his  wife  is  so  great 
an  ornament.  Among  business  men  he  sustains  a  reputation 
for  accuracy,  prudence,  justice,  and  integrity,  and  as  a  man 


As  a  faithful  chronicler  we  must  admit  that  in  the  bottom 


104  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

of  that  great,  strong  heart,  there  nestles  one  mortal  weakness. 
Forgive  it,  men  and  angels — it  is  love  ! — love  for  that  little 
wife.  He  loved  her  with  a  true  manliness  when  first  he  brought 
her  to  his  home  a  hride,  and  his  love  has  grown  with  every 
circling  year  since  then.  The  ardour  of  youth  has  given  place 
tc  manhood's  earnestness,  and  all  the  illusions  of  life  have 
faded,  save  this  early  amaranthine  flower,  which  crowns  his 
sober  years  with  youthful  freshness. 

"  Well  ?"  said  he,  in  his  short,  quick  way,  as  she  laid  the 
letter  down. 

"  There !"  she  answered,  emulating  his  own  brevity,  and 
placing  it  in  his  hands. 

It  was,  as  she  surmised,  from  Walsingham,  who  had  deter- 
mined to  return  at  last,  and  wrote,  he  said,  to  solicit  her  kind 
offices  for  his  young  charge.  He  knew,  that  after  its  pro- 
longed desertion,  the  Eyrie  would  not  be  habitable,  and  begged 
Mrs.  Irving  to  find  some  suitable  home  in  the  village,  for  a  few 
•weeks,  for  his  little  girl. 

"  Little  girl !"  remarked  Mr.  Irving,  as  he  folded  the  letter; 
"  your  friend  writes  as  if  she  had  been  standing  still.  What 
can  you  do?" 

"Provide  suitable  accommodations  for  the  'little  girl,'  of 
course." 

«  Where  ?" 

"  Not  very  far  off,  George,"  sne  answered,  with  her  plea- 
sant smile,  and  he  saw  that  the  little  girl  was  to  find  a  home 
under  his  own  roof,  and  a  mother  in  the  mother  of  his  little 
ones.  He  looked  at  her  approvingly. 


NEWS.  105 

"  She  will  be  more  at  home  here/'  said  the  wife,  "  and  then 
it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  me  to  have  her  with  me.  She  is  a  dear, 
good  girl ;  how  she  loved  our  Mary !  Poor  Helen,  will  be  very 
lonely  when  her  friend  leaves  her.  Indeed,  I  do  not  know  why 
she  should  remain  behind.  She  certainly  is  old  enough  to  leave 
school,  and  I  have  long  felt  that  it  was  time  for  me  to  have 
my  daughter  with  me.  Do  we  agree  ?" 

"Always,"  he  answered,  as  he  imprinted  a  grave  kiss  upon 
her  brow. 

"  Then  she  shall  return  with  Walsingham,"  said  Mrs. 
Irving,  joyfully;  and  her  husband,  smiling  assent,  turned 
down  the  gravel-walk  again. 

He  looked  back  once  or  twice,  and  thought  that  his  wife 
looked  very  handsome,  and  very  happy. 

"  Bless  her  I"  he  ejaculated,  "  she's  sunlight." 


106  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER   XV, 


WHEN  Mr.  Walsingham  landed  in  New  York,  his  first  care 
was  to  look  after  the  young  ward,  whose  mental  and  moral  cul- 
ture he  had  for  the  last  six  years  delegated  to  others.  Having 
arranged  all  those  preliminaries,  so  well  understood  by  those 
who  travel,  so  uninteresting  in  their  details  to  those  who  do 
not,  he  proceeded  at  once  to  Madame  de  Fleury's.  On  his 
way  thither  a  thousand  pleasing  thoughts  and  memories  of  the 
child  attended  him.  All  her  graceful  life  flitted  around  him; 
much  of  her  possible  future  seemed  before  him.  Absorbed  in 
his  own  fancies,  the  great  tide  of  life  coursing  through  the 
great  city's  artery  swept  by  him  unobserved.  In  his  mind 
the  moving  mass  was  blotted  from  the  scene  to  give  place  to 
the  multiplied  image  of  Viola.  Little  chubby-cheeked,  frolic- 
some Violas  seemed  dancing  on  the  awning-posts,  peering  from 
behind  the  signs,  or  pirouetting  on  the  roof-combs  of  tall  houses, 
like  airy  sprites.  Pale-faced,  demure  Violas  glided  in  childish 
solemnity  through  the  promenade,  or  looked  with  sweet,  earnest 


RETURN.  107 

eyes  from  dim  and  distant  windows.  Seraphic-faced  Violas, 
with  crowns  of  golden  curls,  smiled  forth  from  the  fleecy 
clouds  and  deep  bright  blue  of  Heaven.  His  thought  was 
filled  with  her,  and  from  his  thought  the  world  was  peopled. 
Let  his  eye  fall  where  it  would,  nought  save  her  image  filled 
it,  and  it  almost  seemed  as  if  the  Universe  presented  but  the 
over-varying  panorama  of  sweet  child-life. 

Thus,  and  thus,  he  remembered  her.  Here  she  was  arch 
and  piquant — there  she  was  spirituelle — and  ever,  ever  she 
was  endearing.  He  would  see  her  again  soon,  sweet  child, 
and  he  smiled  on  a  pyramid  of  flounces,  sailing  past,  sur- 
mounted by  a  bonnet  of  pompadour  pink,  as  he  pictured  her 
startled  eyes  wild  with  wonder,  her  glad  cry  of  recognition,  her 
fond  caress  as  she  leaped  to  his  arms  and  nestled  on  his  bosom. 
The  rebuking  frown  from  the  passing  pyramid  was  lost — so 
was  the  house — (he  had  passed  it  some  two  squares  back), 
and,  ah !  did  he  but  know  it,  so  also  was  the  child. 

Ketracing  his  steps,  he  soon  found  the  ample  door-plate 
which  indicated  the  residence  of  Madame  De  Fleury.  He 
pulled  the  bell  in  his  imperative  way.  The  door  was  opened 
by  a  very  big  and  very  black  servant,  familiarly  known  among 
the  demoiselles  as  "  Sugar  Plum,"  in  allusion  to  the  contra- 
band trade  which  he  carried  on  in  that  staple  for  the  mutual 
advantage  of  candy-loving  children  and  sweet-toothed  "  Sugar 
Plum"  himself. 

Sugar  Plum  marshalled  the  visitor  to  the  drawing-room  with 
appropriate  ceremonies,  where  he  was  immediately  joined  by 
Madame  de  Fleury. 


108  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

Madame  was  surprised  and  delighted  to  see  him — distress  J 
to  hear  that  he  had  had  a  disagreeable  voyage — charmed  'o 
find  his  sojourn  abroad  had  been  so  pleasant — afflicted  beyo  -id 
measure  to  learn  that  he  proposed  robbing  her  (yes,  robbing 
was  the  word)  of  that  dear  sweet  girl  whom  she  loved  as  a 
daughter — just  as  she  was  improving  so  much  in  her  music, 
too !  After  suffering  these  painful  alternations  of  feeling 
with  a  praiseworthy  appearance  of  stoicism,  she  despatched 
the  grinning  Sugar  Plum  for  Miss  Viola. 

Madame  prided  herself  upon  her  conversational  talent,  and 
upon  this  occasion  she  came  out  in  all  her  strength.  The 
presence  of  an  intellectual  and  travelled  gentleman  was  an. 
inspiration ;  and  her  finished  sentences  flowed  musically  forth, 
ravishing  her  own  ears  at  least.  She  had  no  reason  to  com- 
plain of  her  companion,  for  his  countenance  wore  the  fixed, 
intent  expression  of  an  interested  listener.  Such,  indeed,  he 
was;  for  his  ear  was  strained  to  catch  every  distant  sound 
that  might  prelude  the  child's  approach.  The  whispers  of 
school  girls  in  the  corridor,  the  distant  singing  in  the  music- 
room,  the  quickly  advancing  or  receding  footsteps,  were  all 
associated  with  her,  and  seemed  to  give  token  of  her  presence, 
as  though  she  alone  inhabited  the  house. 

Do  not  think  him,  indulgent  friends,  more  like  a  lover 
awaiting  his  mistress  than  a  guardian  his  phild.  Remember, 
the  guardian  is  an  ardent  enthusiast — the  child  the  sole  object 
of  his  manly  tenderness.  She  is  associated  with  all  his  plans 
for  the  future,  and  has  beguiled  him  into  happiness  in  the 
past :  could  you  listen  attentively  to  the  elegant  nothings  of  a 


RETURN.  109 

stranger,  when  watching  for  the  coming  of  your  long  absent, 
darling  daughter  ? 

Can  that  be  she  ? 

It  was  a  soft,  measured  tread  that  approached — unlike  the 
bounding  step  of  Viola — and  yet  he  listened,  and  turned  his 
curious  gaze  toward  the  door.  A  tall,  picturesque  girl,  paused 
timidly  at  the  threshold,  and  Madame's  concluding  remark 
reverberated  through  his  brain  like  sounding  brass — 

"  When  we  turn  our  backs  upon  our  friends,  we  forget  how 
time  is  dealing  with  them." 

Yes!     It  was  Viola! 

Her  long  curls  hung  about  her  face  like  a  golden  glory,  as 
of  old ;  her  large,  dark  eyes  wore  their  well-remembered  ex- 
pression of  mystic  dreaminess;  and  her  complexion  was  trans- 
parently white,  as  that  of  a  young  child,  and  beautifully  sug- 
gestive of  purity;  one  could  not  but  believe  an  unspotted  soul 
dwelt  in  such  glorious  habitation. 

It  was  Viola,  but  she  was  not  "the  child."  Madame's  last 
words  still  echoed  in  his  ears,  and  as  though  he  had  but  jus; 
heard  them,  they  struck  upon  his  brain  with  meaning. 

"  We  forget  how  time  is  dealing,"  etc. 

He  had  expected  to  find  her  a  little  grown,  somewhat 
altered,  but  retaining  her  simple,  impulsive,  loving  ways — in 
short,  her  individuality — but  this,  why  this  was  a  separate 
being  !  She  had  passed  through  the  great  transition,  and  was 
a  woman — a  stranger.  He  marked  the  calm  repose  of  her 
beautiful  face,  the  modest  lignity  of  her  attitude,  and  felt 
10 


110  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

that  his  beloved  child  was  lost  to  him  for  ever.  The  sunny 
little  one  whose  smiling  life  had  brightened  his,  had  floated 
down  the  tide  of  time  beyond  recall. 

"Ah,  my  love,  advance,"  cried  Madame ;  "raise  your  eyes, 
and  tell  me  if  you  ever  saw  this  gentleman  ?" 

One  look,  and  her  whole  face  was  illuminated  with  the  joy 
of  recognition.  With  a  quick,  glad,  girlish  cry,  she  bounded 
forward  to  throw  herself  upon  his  bosom,  as  he  had  pictured. 
Poor  Viola !  she  saw  no  change  in  him,  she  felt  none  in  her- 
self. 

He  took  her  hand,  bent  over  it  with  stately  courtesy,  and 
led  her  to  the  sofa  as  if  she  was  a  duchess.  And  this  was 
the  long-anticipated  meeting ! 

Poor  Viola  !  The  love  which  children,  happy  in  domestic 
ties,  lavish  upon  parents  and  sisters,  she,  in  her  lonely  child- 
hood, had  concentrated  upon  Walsingham.  The  peculiar 
affection  and  reverence  which  she  had  entertained  in  child- 
hood for  her  guardian,  had  strengthened  with  her  developing 
energies  and  deepened  with  her  maturer  life.  Absence,  that 
fatal  corroder  of  affection,  had  only  idealized  hers ;  and  as  the 
pictured  pages  of  the  past  were  opened  to  her  youthful  fancy, 
he  was  measured  with  the  hero,  sage,  and  saint  of  ancient 
story,  only  to  stand  forth  greater,  wiser,  better  than  them  all. 
Then,  all  that  is  charming  in  the  memories  of  childhood,  all 
that  is  dear  in  the  thought  of  home,  was  associated  with  him ; 
and  she  had  longed  for  his  return  with  the  sick  desire  of  an 
exile  for  home — a  child  for  its  mother.  The  thought  of  him 
permeated  her  life,  prompted  every  effort,  mangled  with  every 


RETURN.  Ill 

action.  lie  was  all  her  loving  nature  had  ever  had  to  love. 
What  marvel  that  he  was  the  centre  round  which  her  hopes, 
thoughts,  and  affections  revolved  ?  And  now  he  had  come ! 
He  had  taken  her  hand  in  his,  and  bowed  a  formal  bow,  and 
handed  her  to  the  sofa,  saying — Heaven  knows  what !  Some- 
thing that  whistled  through  her  ears  with  a  hollowness  lihe 
the  wind,  and  she  felt  that  the  rich  world  in  which  she  had 
hoped  to  revel  was  lost  to  her  for  ever,  even  while  her  spirit 
had  almost 

"  Caught  the  light  upon  her  -wings, 
Through  the  half-opened  portal  glowing." 

As  for  "Walsingham,  he  had  been  waiting  to  catch  his  sweet 
little  girl  to  his  heart,  but  this  unlocked  for  and  beautiful  im- 
personation of  womanhood  restrained  him.  He  swallowed  his 
embarrassment,  however,  and  proceeded,  as  best  he  might,  to 
cultivate  an  acquaintance. 

"  I  had  not  expected  to  find  you  so  changed,"  he  remarked, 
apologetically. 

Viola  could  not  reply. 

The  fluent  Madame,  who  had  never  suffered  from  an  impedi- 
ment of  speech,  answered  with  her  usual  fertility,  "  Changed, 
indeed  !  I  doubt  if  you  ever  saw  such  a  change  in  your  life. 
How  tall  she  has  become ;  and  such  a  carriage !  all  my  girls 
are  remarkable  for  their  carriage.  You  see  I  have  made  quite 
an  elegant  affair  of  her;"  and  she  comp.acently  surveyed 
Viola  as  the  work  of  her  own  hands. 


112  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  glad  to  return  to  trie   Eyrie/'  said 
Walsingham,  making  a  second  effort. 

"Very  glad/'  she  answered,  in  a  tone  many  removes  from 


"Delighted,  of  course;  but  the  young  lady's  interests  must 
be  consulted,"  interposed  Madame,  with  a  prudent  regard  for 
her  own.  "Although  much  improved,  as  you  remarked,  she 
is  by  no  means  finished." 

"  Miss  Viola's  will  in  the  matter  must  be  my  law,"  said 
Walsingham,  with  a  bow  of  polite  deference  to  his  ward. 

"  I  was  pleased  to  learn  from  your  letters,"  he  continued, 
"  that  your  friend  Helen  Irving  was  with  you.  Is  she  here 
still?" 

"  Miss  Irving  is  by  no  means  as  stylish  as  her  friend,"  in- 
terposed Madame,  with  broad  significance ;  "  but  then  she  has 
not  been  under  my  care  as  long.  Would  you  not  like  to  see 
her?" 

"  Certainly !" 

Madame  touched  the  bell,  and  despatched  an  attendant  for 
Miss  Irving.  She  came  presently,  looking  as  unlike  the 
interesting  child  he  remembered  as  possible.  Walsingham 
thought,  as  she  entered,  that  the  race  of  fairies  had  departed, 
and  the  world  had  attained  its  growth. 

"  Miss  Irving,  Mr.  Walsingham,"  announced  Madame  do 
Floury. 

"  Oh,  is  it  possible  !"  exclaimed  Helen  ;  "  what  a  delightful 
surprise !"  and  as  he  took  both  her  extended  hands  in  his,  she 
r.flfcrod  her  lips  girlishly  to  be  kissed. 


RETURN.  113 

It  seemed  quite  natural  and  right  to  receive  this  token  of 
welcome  from  Helen,  and  Walsingham  spoke  with  such  cheer- 
ful cordiality  as  he  placed  her  on  the  sofa  by  her  friend,  that 
Viola  was  ready  to  weep  with  vexation. 

Madame  explained  to  her  guest  with  her  usual  elegance  of 
diction,  that  imperative  duties  to  her  pupils  compelled  her  to 
retire. 

"  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  I"  said  Helen,  when  she  had 
closed  the  door ;  "and  looking  so  like  yourself!  You  have 
not  changed  in  the  least,  except — " 

"  Except  ?  Pray  let  me  have  the  exception,"  petitioned 
Walsingham,  who,  in  common  with  the  wisest  men,  felt  a 
little  interest  in  the  opinions  of  others  when  they  concerned 
himself. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Helen,  with  reluctance;  "  but  I  think 
you  look  younger  than  you  used  to  do." 

"  Ah,  that  is  because  you  are  overtaking  me,"  said  he, 
laughing.  "I  have  been  reposing  midway  in  the  race  of 
life,  while  you  have  been  advancing  so  rapidly  that  the  dis- 
tance between  us  has  grown  beautifully  less.  But  how,  has 
time  been  dealing  with  your  charming  mamma?" 

"  Oh,  she  is  charming  mamma  still,"  answered  Helen,  with 
loving  enthusiasm,  "and  time  dare  not  meddle  with  her! 
Papa  will  tell  you  she  is  this  moment,  what  he  has  always 
believed  her  to  be,  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world. 
In  his  eyes  she  will  flourish  in  immortal  youth,  though  she 
should  ,<?ee  an  hundred  summers." 
10* 


114  EROS    AND    ANTER08. 

"  Why  not  say  winters,  when  speaking  of  such  advanced 


"  Because,  such  a  life  as  mamma's  should  be  measured  by 
summers  only:  it  is  so  bright,  so  warm,  so  abounding  in 
blessed  fruits." 

"Walsingham  observed  her  eyes  moisten  as  she  spoke,  and 
taking  her  hand  in  his,  in  his  old  fatherly  way,  said — "  My 
sweet  child,  a  few  moments  ago  I  would  have  reversed  the 
wheels  of  time,  and  carried  you  and  Viola  back  to  your  beau- 
tiful childhood.  I  now  see  that  childhood  was  but  a  bright 
promise,  of  which  your  womanhood  is  the  fulfilment ;"  and  lie 
took  Viola's  hand  also,  who  sat  with  downcast  eyes,  mechani- 
cally tracing  the  figures  in  Madame  do  Flqury's  carpet,  and 
wondering  why  that  meeting,  which  had  been  for  years  a  mil- 
lennium in  her  hope,  should  have  made  her  so  utterly  miserable. 

At  his  kind  touch  she  burst  into  tears. 

Meanwhile,  Madame  in  the  school-room  was  conferring  be- 
tween classes  with  Signer  Bellini  upon  the  events  of  the  morn- 
ing. "  So  handsome !  so  distingue  I"  she  said,  of  Walsing- 
ham. "  I  assure  you,  Signer,  I  have  seen  society  in  my  own 
country,  and  know  a  gentleman  when  I  meet  him  by  that  free- 
masonry which  prevails  among  well-bred  people.  You  under- 
stand." 

Signor  Bellini  made  some  pretensions  to  being  a  well-bred 
man  himself,  and  of  course  understood  perfectly.  "  Was 
mademoiselle  pleased  to  meet  her  friend  ?"  he  inquired,  as  he 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  his  grammar. 

"Not  in  the  least,  I  assure  you,"  replied  Madame;  "it  is 


RETURN.  115 

evident  she  regards  him  with  fear.  Doubtless  Monsieur  Wal- 
singham  has  been  obliged  to  be  stern  with  mademoiselle,  who 
is  spirited.  Ah;  you  may  believe  me,  she  is  reluctant  to  ex- 
change the  maternal  care  of  Madame  De  Fleury  for  the  iron 
rule  of  Monsieur  Walsingham." 

So  satisfied  was  this  excellent  lady  of  the  infallibility  of  her 
impressions,  that  she  ventured  to  confide  them  to  Walsingham 
himself  at  his  next  visit. 

"  If  this  be  so,"  he  replied,  "  I  most  assuredly  shall  not 
remove  her.  But  permit  me  to  consult  Miss  Walsingham 
herself." 

Viola  accordingly  was  summoned.  A  night's  repose  had 
restored  her  spirits,  and  she  entered,  smiling  and  happy. 
Walsingham  thought,  as  he  bade  her  good-morning,  that  he 
had  never  seen  anything  half  so  beautiful  as  her  soft,  brown 
eyes. 

"  I  wished,  Viola,"  said  he,  kindly,  drawing  a  chair  near 
hers,  "  to  consult  you  with  regard  to  yourself.  It  is  my  inten- 
tion to  spend  the  winter  in  the  Eyrie,  where  you  shall  be  as 
welcome  as  the  sunshine"  (which  it  struck  him  that  moment 
she  resembled),  "  if  you  choose  to  accompany  me  j  but  if  you 
are  so  interested  in  your  studies,  or  companions  here,  that  you 
will  leave  them  with  reluctance,  or  if  you  would  find  this  a 
more  congenial  home  during  the  approaching  winter,  I  will 
relinquish  the  pleasure  I  had  promised  myself,  and  make  such 
arrangements  with  Madame  De  Fleury  as  will  afford  you  the 
increased  liberty  suited  to  your  years." 

It  was  very  considerate,  but  somewhat  formal  (she  felt, 


116  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

rather  than  thought),  and  manifested  a  total  misunderstanding 
of  her  wishes.  She  answered  with  some  restraint,  but  evident 
sincerity  :  "  Take  me  home  with  you,  if  you  p.ease  !  I  long  to 
return  to  the  Eyrie." 

He  was  pleased,  and  inquired,  "You  are  quite  sure  you 
would  be  happiest  there  ?" 

"  I  am  very  sure,"  she  said,  smiling,  and  then  added,  sadly, 
"  I  have  never  been  happy  away  from  there." 

It  sounded  to  him  almost  like  a  reproach,  and  there  rose  a 
recollection  of  the  morning  when  a  little  child  he  had  borne 
her  away.  He  remembered  how  her  tearful  eyes  were  strained 
to  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  his  mountain  home,  and  how,  when 
it  faded  from  the  landscape,  she  sobbed  herself  to  sleep,  and — 
hi  id  never  been  happy  since! 

lie  kinged  to  take  her  to  his  heart  again,  and  tell  her  she 
should  return  to  the  old  Eden,  and  be  his  pet,  his  darling,  his 
child,  once  more  and  for  ever.  But,  lo  !  she  was  not  his  child, 
but  a  woman,  and  her  womanhood  awed  him. 

Restraining  the  tenderness  awakened  for  his  whilome  play- 
fellow, he  inquired  if  she  had  been  very  unhappy  ? 

"  Not  exactly  unhappy,"  she  said,  "  and  yet  not  happy.  I 
felt  so  lonely,  so  unloved,  and  I  did  so  hunger  for  affection." 

"  But  you  made  friends  after  a  time,  and  found  yourself 
beloved?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  was  not  the  lest  beloved  of  any.  I  was  not 
necessary  to  any.  It  was  more  tolerable,  however,  after  Helen 
came,  for  she  was  a  dear  friend*  from  the  dear  home,  and  I 
lived  some  part  of  my  old  happiness  over  again  with  her. 


RETURN.  117 

Besides,  I  knew  I  was  necessary  to  her,  for  I  ain  sure  she 
would  have  folded  herself  within  herself,  like  a  sensitive  plant, 
and  quivered  her  shrinking  life  out  if  I  had  not  encompassed 
her  about  like  her  native  air." 

Walsingham  laughed. 

Her  animated  manner  gave  place  to  a  look  of  perplexity, 
and,  with  a  quick,  impatient  movement,  she  brushed  the  curls 
back  from  her  face,  saying,  as  she  did  so,  "  Why  do  you  laugh, 
sir?" 

There  was  such  infantile  grace  in  the  movement,  such  inno- 
cent naivete  in  the  words,  that  Walsingham  felt  that  she  was 
his  child  again. 

"  I  can  hardly  tell  why  I  laughed,"  said  he,  kindly,  "  un- 
less it  was  at  my  little  girl's  circumambient  friendship,  or 
perhaps  at  her  idea  of  happiness." 

"  To  be  necessary  to  some  one  ?" 

u  Yes.  Do  you  remember,  when  a  little  child,  how  it  con- 
stituted your  greatest  happiness  to  believe  you  were  more 
useful  to  me  than  Mrs.  Grey  herself?  It  is  an  old  fancy  to 
which  you  are  faithful." 

"  What  wisdom  I  displayed  in  my  childhood!"  she  answered, 
laughing";  "with  the  experience  of  sixteen  summers,  I  am 
not  able  to  find  a  better  idea  of  happiness.  To  be  so  beloved 
by  one  as  to  be  an  actual  necessity  of  life !  That  must  be 
blissful !" 

"But  jf  you  were  so  beloved  and  so  necessary  to  one  who 
was  distasteful  to  you — "  suggested  he. 

"  Ob,  Mr.  Walsingham,"  cried  Viola,  quickly,  "  that  could 


118  EROS    AND    ANTEIIOS. 

not  be  !  No  one  could  be  distasteful  who  regarded  me  with 
affection.  I  always  should  give  love  for  love." 

"  Take  care,  monsieur,  of  the  young  gentlemen !"  cried 
Madame  De  Fleury,  who  had  entered  unobserved  by  one 
door. 

"  I  was  not  speaking  of  gentlemen/'  replied  Miss  Walsing- 
ham,  decidedly,  as  she  retreated,  blushing,  through  the  other. 

Viola,  in  this  interview,  had  presented  such  various  phases, 
that  "Walsingham  left  the  house  with  a  feeling  of  bewilder- 
ment. She  was  a  child,  and  she  was  not.  A  tone,  a  gesture, 
a  flitting  expression  reminded  him  of  the  little  Viola,  and  his 
heart  yearned  toward  her ;  then  her  beauty,  her  dignity,  her 
grace,  inherited  from  her  mother,  recalled  the  lost  Viola,  and 
awakened  bitter  memories — and  a  third  phase  of  her  charac- 
ter, belonging  entirely  to  the  present  and  herself,  was  at  once 
charming  and  novel.  It  occurred  to  the  bachelor,  as  he 
sauntered  down  Broadway,  that  there  was  something  embar- 
rassing in  his  guardianship  of  this  young  lady,  but  he  recon- 
ciled himself  by  remembering,  firstly,  that  it  was  inevitable, 
and,  secondly,  that  the  child  had  seemed  a  much  more  formi- 
dable undertaking,  but  meeting  the  responsibility  with  a 
courageous  heart  all  difficulties  had  vanished.  Thus  it  would 
be  in  this  case,  he  promised  hia  «;elf,  and  made  the  necessary 
arrangements  for  his  homeward  journey  without  any  further 
misgivings. 


THE    JOURNET.  119 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


THE  JOURNEY. 


.TRA\ 


^RAVELLING  dresses  were  purchased,  trunks  were  packed, 
bills  were  paid,  kisses  interchanged,  promises  made,  all  "  the 
pomp  and  circumstance  of  glorious"  school-girl  departure  duly 
performed,  and  two  bright  young  faces  were  turned  toward  the 
Susquehanna. 

Viola's,  eyes  danced  with  anticipation,  and  her  little  feet 
tattoed  the  floor  of  the  car  as  though  she  felt  within  her  an 
impulse  strong  enough  to  accelerate  the  locomotive. 

"  Viola  is  wild  with  delight,"  said  Helen  to  Walsingham. 

"  Nay,  then,"  retorted  the  wicked  Viola,  "  if  I  am  happiest 
of  the  two  in  returning,  it  is  not  because  I  was  the  most 
miserable  while  away !" 

Helen  blushed  and  was  quiet :  she  evidently  did  not  relish 
this  meddling  with  her  misery  past. 

Viola  saw  how  the  case  stood  with  her  sensitive  friend,  and 
added  caressingly,  "  Because  I  had  not  half  as  much  to  regret, 
you  know." 


120  EROS    AND    ANTER08. 

"No!"  quoth  Walsingham  dryly,  as  he  drew  his  cloak 
around  him,  "  nothing  but  a  musty  fusty  guardian  in  a 
mountain  rookery." 

"  Oh,  Viola,  what  a  mistake  you  have  made !"  laughed 
Helen.  "  In  your  consideration  for  me  you  forgot  Mr.  Wal- 
singham  !" 

But  Viola  was  not  to  be  vanquished  by  any  guardian  in  the 
land,  and  argued  him  into  a  good  humor,  and  herself  out  of 
the  little  difficulty,  with  a  tact  worthy  of  a  daughter  of  Eve  j 
and,  alas  !  a  daughter  of  some  one  else  of  whom  he  thought. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  our  travellers  reached  the  river.  I 
say  the  river,  for  to  the  young  members  of  the  party  there  was 
but  one  river,  and  their  homes  were  on  its  banks.  The  transit 
from  car  to  boat  was  speedily  made.  With  feelings  of  quiet 
satisfaction  they  found  themselves  dreamily  floating  homeward, 
encompassed  by  the  shadows  of  familiar  mountains.  They 
were  brilliant  as  a  bouquet,  with  autumnal  tints,  crimson  and 
gold  and  green  (the  living  green  of  forest  pines)  mingled  in 
luxuriant  masses.  The  gorgeous  range  seemed  to  circle  the 
earth  with  a  glory  like  the  rainbow,  while  the  haze  of  autumn 
hung  its  soft  illusion  over  the  hills,  subduing  their  brilliant 
hues.  The  flowing  silvery-voiced  river  murmured  her  primeval 
song  to  the  mist-wreaths  on  her  bosom,  hurrying  downward  to 
the  sea ;  and  from  the  dreamy  beauty  of  hazy  mountain  top, 
and  misty  river  and  picturesque  landscape,  arose  a  subtle 
influence  which  enthralled  the  hearts  of  the  travellers  with  a 
'remembered  charm.  "  Thus  and  thus  it  looked  when  we  were 


THE    JOURNEY.  121 

children,  and  thus  it  looks  to-night  around  our  home  far 
away." 

Ay,  thus  it  was  before  ye  were,  fair  creatures j  when  no 
eye  beheld  its  loveliness  save  that  of  the  All  Seeing,  who  filled 
the  universe  with  glories — thus  will  it  remain  in  its  imperish- 
able beauty,  when  ye,  with  your  beloved,  have  passed  .away  and 
are  no  more  seen  for  ever. 

Walsingham  repeated  the  oft  admired  lines  from  Scott : — 

"  This  is  mine  own,  my  native  land." 

And  a  rage  for  patriotic  poetry  ensued ;  from  his  student 
storehouse  he  drew  forth  treasures  of  poesy,  and  amid  the 
mingled  harmonies  of  lofty  numbers,  murmuring  waters,  and 
mysterious  voices  of  the  autumnal  night,  darkness  settled  over 
the  idyllian  land. 

It  was  not  in  a  sail-boat,  spreading  its  white  wings  to  the 
breeze,  nor  yet  to  the  plash  of  oars,  and  the  song  of  "Row, 
brothers,  row,"  that  travellers  ascended  the  Susquehanna; 
neither  was  it  by  means  of  that«slave  of  industry's  lamp,  the 
giant  steam,  who  pants  and  roars  along  less  favoured  waters. 
It  must  be  confessed,  and  I  make  the  confession  with  humility, 
that  it  was  in  a  simple  canal-boat  that  tourists  condescended 
to  traverse  the  valley  of  the  Susquehanna. 

It  is  with  still  deeper  abasement  I  confess  that  I  have  not 

a  soul  above  canal-boats !     I  arn  constrained  to  acknowledge  a 

debt  of  gratitude  to  that  ignoble  craft  for  never  to  be  forgotten 

hours  such  as  I  have  described,  spent  in  the  companionship  of 

11 


122  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

those  who  have  now  their  homes  amid  the  stars,  excelling 
them  in  glory. 

There  is  a  luxury  in  the  sluggishness  of  these  great  mud- 
turtles,  an  aristocratic  indifference  to  time,  an  appreciativeness 
of  the  "  dolce  far  niente,"  which  soothes  my  flurried  soul  in 
these  troublous  days,  when  the  aforesaid  slave  of  the  lamp  is 
becoming  the  master  of  the  world.  It  is  refreshing  to  be 
ensconced  upon  the  deck  of  this  craft,  and  resign  oneself  to 
the  sweet  influences  of  earth  and  air  and  sky  throughout  the 
ever  changing  day.  Sunshine  and  clouds,  trees  and  moun- 
tains, are  trinkets  in  Nature's  kaleidoscope,  and  Nature's 
child  is  never  weary  with  watching  their  new  and  wonderful 
combinations  of  beauty. 

Sleep,  did  you  say  ?  Hum — when  it  comes  to  that  I  have 
slept  better  on  a  spring-mattress ;  but  that  is  not  travelling,  you 
know.  I  do  not  remember  to  have  slept  better  in  a  stage-coach, 
or  a  railway  car,  or  even  over  the  boiler  of  the  steam  giant 
itself. 

Young  travellers,  such  as  ours,  to  whom  life  is  fresh,  and 
the  whole  world  novel,  are  insensible  to  the  discomforts  of 
travelling.  Viola  and  Helen  thought  it  capital  fun  to  lie 
awake  that  night  listening  to  the  dances,  songs,  and  witticisms 
of  the  boatmen  overhead.  Nay,  such  is  the  contagion  of 
mirth,  that  the  two  girls  found  themselves  gibing,  jesting,  and 
laughing  quite  as  merrily,  although  not  as  boisterously  as  their 
ruystering  compagnons  du  voyaye. 

"  Uprose  the  golden  morning,"  and  uprose  those  merry 
maidens,  eager  to  discover  what  progress  had  been  made 


THE    JOURNEY.  123 

during  the  night.  The  morning  toilet  over,  they  sought  the 
deck,  where  Walsingham  was  already  promenading. 

"  Do  you  see  that  ?"  said  he,  significantly,  pointing  to  the 
prospect  before  them. 

They  looked  and  saw  the  three  broad  rivers,  the  three  white 
bridges,  the  two  quaint  villages,  the  beetling  crag,  the  weather- 
stained  turrets,  in  short,  the  Eyrie  home  !  How  beautiful  was 
it  all  in  the  morning  sunshine ! 

"Wai!"  cried  a  sharp,  twanging  voice  behind  them,  "if 
that  aint  a  curus  notion !  Did  ever  a  fellow  see  the  beat  of 
that  are  house  on  the  hill  ?  Say,  you ! — What's  the  name  of 
that  are  place  you  was  a  pintin'  at?" 

"It  is  called  by  the  good  people  in  the  vicinity  '  Walsing- 
ham' s  Folly,'  "  replied  the  proprietoi',  courteously. 

The  young  ladies  smiled,  well  remembering  this  opprobrious 
name  given  their  beloved  Eyrie  by  the  country  folks. 

"  Folly?  Blamed  if  it  aint !"  said  the  querist,  approvingly. 
"  Maybe  you  can  tell  me,  stranger,  what  airthly  use  he  meant 
to  put  it  too  ?" 

"  He  intended  to  reside  there." 

"And  what  did  he  follow,  stranger?" 

"  His  own  fancies,  I  believe." 

"True  as  preaching,"  exclaimed  Jonathan,  with  a  chuckle; 
"but  what  did  he  do  for  a  livin'  ?" 

"  He  was  a  gentleman  of  fortune." 

"  Was  he,  though  ?     Wonder  how  he  made  it  ?" 

"  He  inherited  it." 

"  Hay,  now  ?     Born  with  a  silver  spun  in  his  mouth  !  eh  ! 


124  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

Wai,  you  might  ha'  known  he  wa'n't  what  you  might  call  a 
practical  man,  or  he'd  never  made  that  ere  investment.  Made 
a  pretty  considerable  hole  in  his  pocket,  I  guess  ?" 

To  this  Walsingham  assented,  with  an  amused  smile. 

"  Broke  him  dead,  I'll  bet  a  cookie !  Then  what  could  he 
do?  He  couldn't  keep  store  up  there,  'cause  custom  would 
be  rayther  slim — just  rayther!  'Tisn't  a  good  stand  for  a 
tavern ; — and  there'd  be  mighty  small  chance  of  his  persuadin' 
the  great  central  serpentine  to  take  a  turn  his  way.  Bad 
investment  I"  And  the  practical  man  shook  his  head,  as 
though  he  felt  the  full  extent  of  the  stranger's  calamity. 

"I'll  tell  ye  what,"  he  added,  brightly,  after  a  moment's 
cogitation;  "wouldn't  it  be  a  speculation  to  advertise  the 
view?  Walsingham's  Folly !  Folly!  Folly!  Folly!" 

He  listened  carefully  as  he  thus  rang  the  changes  with 
his  sharp  metallic  voice,  looking  the  while  as  though  he  was 
testing  a  doubtful  coin.  He  must  have  felt  so,  too,  for  he 
presently  lifted  his  head,  Baying, 

"  'Twon't  pass !" 

"  What  ?  the  name  ?" 

"  Yes ;  'taint  out-setting  enough  for  the  speculation.  Folks 
can  see  follys  enough  to  hum.  What  do  you  say  neow  to  the 
North  American  Pagoda?" 

Walsingham  insinuated  that  this  title,  although  very  im- 
posing, was  not  altogether  appropriate ;  and,  feeling  disposed 
to  prolong  a  conversation  that  afforded  so  much  entertainment, 
turned  on  the  indefatigable  querist  with  the  inquiry: — 


THE    JOURNEY.  125 

"  Can  you  tell  me;  friend,  why  folks  see  so  much  folly  at 
home?" 

"Because  there  are  so  many  fools  in  the  world,  I  guess." 

"  I  have  been  pleased  to  observe,"  said  "Walsinghain,  with 
a  mixture  of  philosophy  and  sarcasm,  "  the  facility  with  which 
men  denounce  as  folly  whatever  may  be  foreign  to  their  tastes. 
I  recognise  it  as  a  wise  provision  of  Nature,  indulgent  mother ! 
for  the  happiness  of  her  children.  It  is  comfortable,  nay 
gratifying,  to  feel  satisfied  of  the  wisdom  of  our  own  views, 
and  the  consequent  folly  of  all  who  dissent.  Men  differ  in 
temperament  and  tastes,  and  are  intolerant  of  those  differences. 
The  spendthrift,  not  satisfied  with  his  own  prodigality,  des- 
pises those  who  do  not  share  his  fault.  The  miser  does  not 
confine  himself  to  the  mere  pleasure  of  hoarding,  but  takes  a 
higher  delight  in  his  superiority  over  those  who  are  too  short- 
sighted to  follow  his  example.  The  bon-vivant  admires  him- 
self as  prince  of  good  fellows ',  while  the  Grahamite  believes 
himself  a  Solomon  for  wisdom.  The  poet," — and  he  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  Blue  Hill  Bluff — "the  poet  revels  in  his  ideal 
world,  with  a  feeling  of  contemptuous  pity  for  the  practical 
man,  against  whom  the  fairy  gates  are  closed;  while  7te,  in 
turn,  regards  his  imaginative  brother  as  a  brain-sick  fool, 
unfit  for  the  earnest  purposes  of  life.  Each  is  intolerant  of 
another's  taste — each  accuses  his  brother  of  folly." 

"Wai,"  said  the  stranger,  who  had  listened  attentively, 
"  isn't  there  folly  in  the  whole  bilin'  ?" 

"There  is,  I  believe.  "We  all  have  follies  enough  of  our 
own  to  answer  for,  Heaven  knows,  were  they  only  as  apparent 
11* 


126  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

to  us  as  those  of  our  neighbours.  But  I  fear  our  own  faults 
are  too  near  to  meet  the  angle  of  vision." 

"  Sound  as  a  dollar,"  quoth  his  admiring  hearer,  who  spoke 
in  the  technicalities  of  trade,  as  a  sailor  interlards  his  speech 
with  nautical  phrases;  "you've  been  to  school,  and  had  a 
right  smart  chance  of  learnin'  a  thing  or  two,  I  veow !  You'd 
never  be  the  fool  to  build  a  folly ;  you  wouldn't !" 

This  tribute  to  his  judgment  was  received  by  the  guardian 
in  silence,  while  his  loquacious  companion  proceeded  to  give  a 
short  account  of  himself;  the  object  of  which  was  to  show 
his  own  superior  wisdom  contrasted  with  "the  folly  of  the 
fool  that  built  the  folly." 

"Now,  look  at  me !"  quoth  he,  complacently;  "me,  Midas 
Mitten.  I  never  had  an  inheritance;  I  was  born  without  a 
birthright,  and  began  life  upon  a  blessing,  which  I  invested 
in  stocks.  Never  in  anything  so  unproductive  as  that,  niiud  ! 
I  am  a  self-made  man,  sir !" 

Walsingham  bowed,  as  the  voluble  Mr.  Midas  Mitten 
paused,  signifying  his  approval  of  the  work. 

"By  untiring  z'ndustry  and  close  equanomy  I  have  piled  up 
a  leetle  fortune,  sir;  and  when,  after  a. hard  day's  bisness,  I 
lay  me  down  to  sleep,  it  is  with  the  comfortable  reflection  that 
eve'ry  mint-drop  I  own  is  working  while  I  sleep;"  and  he 
brought  his  hand  down  violently  upon  the  trunk  on  which  he 
was  seated,  to  attest  his  enthusiasm  upon  this  subject. 

Fool !  lulling  his  soul  to  rest  on  that  poor  thought ! 

It  was  a  hollow  and  sepulchral  voice  that  slowly  pronounced 


THE    JOURNEY.  127 

these  words;  all  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  voice,  and 
saw  a  man  standing  within  a  few  feet  of  them,  whose  appear- 
ance was  so  remarkable  that  it  deserves  a  passing  description. 

His  figure  was  small  and  thin,  his  face  dark,  haggard,  and 
partly  hidden  by  a  crisp  black  beard  flowing  down  to  his 
bosom  in  patriarchal  style ;  his  head  was  likewise  guiltless  of 
razor,  and  he  stood  erect  in  the  bow  of  the  boat,  with  long, 
black,  elfin  locks  floating  backward  in  the  morning  wind,  and 
deep,  dreamy  eyes  fixed  upon  distance,  as  though  unconscious 
of  the  presence  of  those  around. 

The  little  party  had  almost  persuaded  themselves  that  this 
rapt  figure-head  had  not  spoken  the  sentence  that  startled 
them,  when  his  lips  moved,  and  the  hollow  voice  again  issued 
from  its  grim  portal;  his  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the  distant 
mountains,  as  though  adjuring  a  glorious  company  invisible  to 
ordinary  ken,  he  murmured, 

"  What  means  this  arrogant  creation  of  God's  hand,  when 
he  says,  f  I  am  a  self-made  man  ?'  He  means  that  he  has 
heaped  a  little  pile  of  shining  dust  together,  without  which 
the  sincere  idolater  would  not  believe  himself  to  be  a  man. 
Brother  !  my  brother  !  does  no  voice  of  warning  ever  whisper 
to  thy  weary  soul,  '  It  is  in  vain  ye  rise  up  early,  and  so  late 
take  your  rest,  and  eat  the  bread  of  carefulness  T  Does  no 
denunciatory  thunder  startle  the  serenity  of  thy  self-compla- 
cent nature,  with  <  Thou  fool !  thy  soul  shall  be  required  of 
thee  ?'  Oh,  son  of  Adam  !  priding  thyself  in  labour,  remem- 
ber thy  progenitor  was  doomed  to  labour  by  the  curse  of  an 


IMB  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

offended  God;  and  when  his  daily  penance  of  toil  was  paid, 
he  wiped  the  tears  of  tasked  nature  from  his  brow,  and  sat 
him  down,  in  the  awful  hope  that  he  was  nearer  the  terrible 
and  mysterious  gate  of  death  which  was  to  admit  him  to  the 
heaven,  promised  in  pity,  when  Paradise  was  lost ;  could  he 
have  beheld,  in  some  vision  of  the  night,  his  infatuated  race 
glorying  in  their  inheritance  of  shame — exulting  in  their  bur 
dens,  as  idiot  slaves  might  do  in  the  adornment  of  their  shackle* 
— ingeniously  multiplying  their  labours,  thereby  increasing 
their  curse — forgetting,  in  their  cares,  the  high  story  of  their 
origin  and  destiny,  or  recalling  it,  only  with  the  vague  remem- 
brance accorded  to  classic  fable  or  heathen  myth :  then, 
then  would  he  have  realized  with  keener  pang  the  depth  of 
the  fall— the  weight  of  the  curse." 

He  paused,  and  as  he  had  before  seemed  to  address  an 
invisible  and  distant  company,  he  now  stood  in  listening  atti- 
tude, as  if  expecting  a  reply.  Meanwhile  the  rebuked  Midas 
kept  up  an  animated  pantomime,  expressive  of  intense  amuse- 
ment and  contempt,  and  was  about  to  venture  upon  "  Rich, 
ain't  it,  neow  ?"  when  the  enthusiast  resumed  : — 

"  Labour  is  honourable :  it  is  a  duty  appointed  by  God. 
Let  it  be  performed  with  humility,  as  the  expiation  of  the 
sinful  body. 

"  Meditation  is  a  remnant  of  Eden  life.  It  is  an  exercise 
whereby  the  soul  grows  great,  and  almost  forgets  her  fall. 

"  Oh,  Poet  Heart !"  and  he  turned  his  gaze  upon  the  Eyrie, 
•"  Oh,  Poet  Heart,  it  was  for  this  thou  madest  thy  home  amid 


THE    JOURNEY."  129 

the  clouds.  Labour  may  pant  along  these  teeming  valleys, 
but  thou,  upon  thy  mountain  top,  mayest  meditate.  Lovest 
thou  science  ?  There  canst  thou  win  the  revelation  of  nature's 
secrets,  and  grasp  the  sublimest  mysteries  of  heaven !  Art 
enamoured  of  poesy  ?  There  canst  thou  gather  inspiration 
from  faintly  echoing  spirit-voices,  and  chant  such  melodies 
as  may  entrance  the  world !  This  mayest  thou  do  in  thy 
Folly." 

There  was  a  sarcastic  emphasis  in  this  last  sentence ;  and 
as  his  rapid  utterance  died  across  the  waters,  the  pines  that 
crowned  the  summit  of  the  bluff  nodded  as  though  in  answer 
to  his  adjuration.  • 

Midas  Mitten's  pantomime  was  resumed.  He  stuffed  his 
bandanna  in  his  mouth  as  though  to  cork  his  cachinnations ; 
he  held  his  sides  to  indicate  that  his  fermenting  merriment 
thus  confined  might  burst  his  ribs  asunder;  and  favoured 
Walsingham  with  a  significant  punch,  fraught  with  like  peril 
to  that  courtly  gentleman;  he  shook  his  head  violently  to 
intimate  he  could  not  endure  it  much  longer ;  and  wound  up 
the  performance  by  jerking  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder 
toward  the  object  of  these  elegant  attentions,  and  tapping  his 
forehead,  as  he  observed,  "  Cracked,  by  hokey  !" 

"  I  think,"  whispered  Helen  to  Viola,  "  from  the  specimens 
before  us,  I  shall  like  crazy  people  better  than  sane  ones." 

Just  then  the  boat  struck  the  wharf,  and  Helen  observed 
that  the  stranger  at  the  bow  turned  slowly  from  the  contem- 
plation of  the  bluff,  and  fixing  his  regards  upon  the  steeples 


130  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

of  the  town,  strode  abstractedly  across  the  plank  to  shore. 
He  did  not  tumble  in  the  water  as  she  expected  him  to  do, 
aud  she  was  speculating  upon  the  probable  care  of  his  invisible 
familiars,  when  the  sharp  voice  of  Mr.  Mitten  twanged  on 
her  meditations. 

"Wai,  mister,  you  hold  up  here;  maybe  you're  to  hum  in 
this  village  ?" 

A  curt  affirmative  from  Walsingham  encouraged  him  to 
proceed. 

"  I'm  in  luck  to  have  a  friend  in  the  diggins,  because  I 
mean  to  stop  myself.  There's  a  deal  of  water-power  about, 
and  I've  a  mind  to  see  if  it's  available.  A  saw-mill  neow  over 
yonder,  across  one  branch  to  the  Island" — 

Walsingham  interrupted  him,  saying  it  was  not  in  his  power 
to  afford  him  information  at  present,  as  the  ladies  required  his 
attention. 

"Never  yeou  mind,  then,"  said  Midas  good-humouredly, 
"  I'll  be  on  hand.  Where  did  you  say  your  folks  live  ?" 

Walsingham  turned  once  more,  with  Viola  on  his  arm,  and 
remarking,  "  There  is  my  home,  sir,"  pointed  to  the  Bluff. 

"  Oh  Je-rcw-se-lem !"  howled  Mr.  Midas  Mitten  as  the 
little  party  left  the  wharf,  "  I'm  sold !  He  is  the  fool  that 
built  the  Folly !" 

They  had  not  proceeded  many  steps  before  they  met  Mr. 
Irving,  who  was  on  his  way  to  the  wharf  to  receive  them.  He 
welcomed  his  daughter  with  affection,  and  her  friends  with 
warmth,  urging  Walsingham  to  make  his  home  with  him 


THE    JOURNEY.  131 

until  his  own  house  should  be  in  readiness  to  receive  them. 
Walsingham  declined,  having  written  to  engage  quarters  at  the 
hotel,  but  Viola,  of  course,  preferred  becoming  the  guest  of 
her  friend,  and  was  consigned  to  the  care  of  Mrs.  Irving.  It 
was  settled,  however,  thsi  Mr.  Walsingham  should  dine  with 
them. 


132  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

TETE-A-TETE. 

"  AND  now,  little  lady,  sit  down  by  me,  and  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  these  strangers.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  had  ever  seen 
one  of  the  three  before  to-day." 

The  day  was  over — the  girls  had  smiled  good-night — the 
house  was  still,  and  Mrs.  Irving  drew  her  small  chair  to  her 
husband's  feet,  prepared  for  a  connubial  chat. 

"  Not  even  Helen  ?"  she  inquired,  smiling. 

"  Not  even  Helen  !"  he  echoed  dolorously.  "  Do  you 
know,  little  lady,  you  have  a  grown-up  daughter?" 

"Yes,  and  not  only  that,  she  answered,  her  cheerful  tones 
contrasting  with  his  sad  ones,  "  I  have  a  grown-up  son, 

To  stand  on  my  right  hand, 
And  keep  the  bridge  with  me." 

"  True !  Howard  must  be  nearly  as  tall  as  his  father.  I 
don't  think  I  am  quite  as  well  pleased  as  you  are  !  It  sri-m* 
sad,  darling,  that  our  little  pets  should  outgrow  our  caresses." 


TETE-A-TETE.  133 

' '  They  d  :>  not  outgrow  our  love,  you  know  j  and  is  it  not  a 
proud  reflection  that  you  have  been  permitted  to  give  one  noble 
man,  one  estimable  woman  to  bless  their  kind  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  these  children  develop  into  such." 

"  There  it  is  !"  she  said  quickly.  "  Your  little  child  is  an 
amusing  puzzle — a  beautiful  mystery — you  long  to  unravel  it 
— to  know  the  end.  Adolescence  brings  the  solution — you  see 
the  beautiful  development  of  feelings,  intellect,  and  principles, 
and  can  almost  read  from  your  child's  qualities  its  destiny.  I 
felt  all  day,  as  I  looked  into  Helen's  heart,  that  I  could  tell 
her  fortune.  When  the  dying  patriarch  gathered  his  sons 
around  him,  and  to  each  of  all  the  listening  twelve,  spoke  of 
his  character,  his  future,  and  his  fate,  there  was  much  of  the 
wisdom  of  the  discriminating  parent  mingled  with  his  higher 
inspiration." 

"  Poor  little  thing,"  he  said,  caressingly  smoothing  her 
brown  hair,  "  I  wonder  if  you  are  growing  old  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least !"  she  exclaimed ;  "  don't  be  so  rude  as  to 
suggest  such  a  thing." 

"  I  never  should  have  thought  it  but  for  these  impertinent 
upstart  children ;  but  now  I  look  at  you,  I  see  you  look  to-night 
as  you  did  twenty  years  ago." 

He  took  her  face  between  his  great  hands  and  turned  it  up 
to  meet  his  gaze,  in  which  there  was  more  fondness  than 
scrutiny.  She  had  altered  a  little,  notwithstanding  her  hus- 
band's testimony.  The  freshness,  the  bloom,  the  rotundity  of 
youth,  was  gone;  but  hers  was  a  ircttincss  with  which  time 
does  not  seriously  intermeddle.  The  delicate  features,  the  soft 
12 


134  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

loving  eyes,  and,  above  all,  the  gentle  -winning  manner,  were 
unaltered,  and  Mrs.  Irving  was  a  charming  woman  still.  If 
she  had  been  ten  times  as  old,  and  altogether  ugly,  I  doubt  if 
good  George  Irving  would  have  known  it.  The  spells  with 
which  she  had  enchanted  him  in  her  kvely  girlhood  were  on 
his  heart  still,  and,  to  his  constant  blind  affection,  she  was — 
as  she  always  had  been,  and  ever  would  be — his  beautiful !  hig 
well  beloved  ! 

"Your  daughter  is  not  pretty,  Mrs.  Irving,"  he  remarked; 
his  perceptions  as  a  father  seemed  clear  enough. 

"What  a  disagreeable  communication!"  she  exclaimed  with 
playful  pettishness.  "  Do  you  know  she  is  good  ?" 

"And  sensible?" 

"Yes.  Helen  has  native  judgment,  clear  perceptions,  and, 
alas !  acute  sensibilities." 

Her  husband  smiled. 

"Your  own  gifts,"  he  said.  "Why  did  you  not  add" — 
he  paused  with  a  look  of  admiration,  as  if  he  would  say,  "  Why 
did  you  not  add,  your  own  beauty?" 

"  Pshaw,  George,"  she  exclaimed,  impatiently.  "Although 
Helen  is  not  a  showy  girl,  she  is  pretty  enough.  What  a 
naughty  father,  to  be  dissatisfied  with  such  a  dear  child !" 

A  mother's  love  is  satisfied  in  her  child;  but  a  father's 
pride  claims  some  aliment.  He  would  have  his  offspring 
distinguished  by  some  gift — conspicuous  for  some  quality. 

"  The  truth  is,  Mary,"  he  said,  apologetically,  "  I  did  not 
think  she  was  lacking  iu  beauty  until  her  friend  came  down  !" 

"Viola  is  dazzling !"  said  the  mother;  "  but  I  shall  not  bo 


TETE-A-TETE.  135 

able  to  love  her,  if  she  eclipses  my  poor  child  to  her  father's 
eyes." 

Mrs.  Irving  had  her  womanly  weaknesses.  The  husband 
smiled,  and  seemed  pleased.  I  think  he  loved  her  weaknesses 
rather  better  than  anything  else. 

"  How  your  friend  "Walsingham  has  altered,"  he  said, 
adroitly  eluding  the  difficulty. 

"  Yes,  has  he  not  ?" 

"  He  used  to  be  so  moping  and  silent — so  pale  and  wil- 
lowy." 

"And  now,"  she  answered,  with  vivacity,  "his  figure  is 
firm,  and  strong  as  a  column ;  his  cheek  brown,  and  his  whole 
countenance  glows  with  energy !  His  intellect,  too,  formerly 
so  morbid,  has  grown,  under  the  influences  of  active  life, 
healthy,  vigorous,  and  clear.  I  used  to  feel  interested  in  him, 
but  now  I  admire  him  !" 

Little  lady,  little,  rattling  lady !  do  you  not  see  your  hus- 
band frown?  Do  you  not  know  he  is  jealous  of  your  praises  ? 

"  It's  late,"  said  he,  briefly. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  and  you  are  tired — here  are  candles.  As  I  was 
saying,  he  is  so  improved  by  his  travels,  that  we  shall  find 
him  more  companionable  that  ever." 

"  Umph !" 

"Don't  you  think  so,  George?" 

"  I  think,"  said  George,  with  an  unpleasant  emphasis,  as 
he  trimmed  his  candle,  "  that  he  will  not  take  his  place  among 
men  until  he  has  some,  object  upon  which  to  expend  his  ener- 
gies— until  he  takes  some  interest  in  the  serious  concerns  of 


136  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

life.  Of  a  parlour  fixture,  prating  of  music,  painting,  poetry, 
and  such  trifles,  as  though  they  made  up  the  sum  of  exist- 
ence, you  women  are  the  best  judges ;"  and  he  strode  through 
the  hall  and  up  the  staircase  as  though  he  crushed  a  swarm 
of  irritating  insects  at  every  tread. 

His  wife  tripped  lightly  after  him,  with  a  coquettish  smile 
lighting  her  small  features. 

So  be  it  unto  all  monsters  who  insinuate  that  their  wives 
are  old,  or  their  children  ugly ! 


CHANGES.  137 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

"  Now  on  some  tangled  ivy  net — 
Now  in  some  tinkling  rivulet — 
On  mosses  thick  with  violet, 
Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set." 
TENNYSON. 

"No  dog  was  at  the  threshold,  great  or  small, 
No  pigeon  on  the  roof — no  household  creature — 
No  cat,  demurely  dozing  on  the  wall — 

Not  one  domestic  feature." 

HOOD. 

VIOLA  had  seemed  so  eager  to  visit  the  Eyrie,  that  Wal- 
singham  invited  her  to  ride  thither  with  him  on  the  following 
morning.  As  he  led  her  to  her  horse  he  was  again  struck  by 
the  beauty  of  her  face,  refreshed  as  it  was  by  rest,  and  bright 
with  expectation. 

He  did  not  yet  identify  this  lovely  girl  with  his  little  lost 

pet.     He  had  not  associated  familiarly  with  women  for  years ; 

and,  therefore,  his  manner,  though  courtly  and  deferential, 

was  distant.     She  also  was  reserved ;  her  quick  affections  still 

12* 


138  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

suffering  from  their  revulsion  j  and  so  they  rode  silently 
through  the  grass  grown  streets. 

When  on  the  bridge,  with  the  calm  waters  beneath  them, 
mirroring  mountain  and  sky,  as  she  had  loved  to  see  it  long 
ago,  she  turned  to  him  quickly,  saying, 

" Does  not  this  recall  the  past  to  you?" 

As  he  looked  down  upon  her  fair  young  face,  almost  infan- 
tile ic  its  beauty,  he  answered,  "  The  past?  Yes,  to  me  it  does; 
but  you ! — you  have  no  past." 

She  looked  at  him  expressively,  as  though  about  to  speak, 
and  he  waited  to  hear,  feeling  that  her  reply  would  be  a  vin- 
dication of  her  little  past.  Her  courage  failed,  however,  and 
she  averted  her  face  timidly. 

"Viola,"  he  said,  recalling  her  to  himself  and  the  subject, 
"  I  would  like  to  know  how  far  into  the  past  your  recollections 
extend." 

"  About  fourteen  years,"  she  answered,  gravely. 

Walsingham  laughed  as  much  at  the  manner  as  the  answer. 
"  That  is  nearly  the  whole  of  your  short  life,"  said  he.  "  Can 
you  remember  since  you  were  two  years  old  ?" 

"  I  have  not  any  connected  remembrance  of  life  at  that  age, 
but  there  are  certain  scenes  witnessed  then  which  are  as  vivid 
pictures  in  my  mindj  from  the  time  I  was  four  years  old 
memory  furnishes  me  with  a  connected  history  of  my  expe- 
riences." 

"  Your  memory  may  be  faithful  enough,  but  are  you  not 
mistaken  with  regard  to  time?  I  can  scarcely  think  you 
remember  things  that  transpired  when  you  were  so  young." 


CHANGES.  139 

"I  am  not  mistaken;  I  remember  my — "  She  paused; 
then  resumed  in  a  lower  tone;  "  my  father's  face,  and  I  never 
saw  him  after  I  was  two  years  old." 

She  had  never  before  spoken  of  her  father,  and  Walsing- 
ham  had  thought  that  her  early  experiences  were  lost  in  the 
oblivion  of  childhood.  Curious  to  know  what  her  impressions 
of  that  parent  were,  he  inquired,  "  How  do  you  remember 
him?" 

"I  see  him  always  by  a  dim  fire-light,  his  cloak  and  hat 
covered  with  snow,  as  though  he  had"  just  entered  from  a 
storm;  he  stands  erect,  gesticulates  violently,  and  wears  a 
dark  and  threatening  aspect." 

"  I  would  not  like  to  be  thus  remembered  by  a  daughter  " 
said  Walsingham.  "Tell  me,  Viola,  does  your  heart  ever 
yearn  toward  your  remaining  parent  ?" 

"  Never !  He  must  have  terrified  me  when  a  child,  for  I 
think  of  him  with  dread." 

"  You  need  not  fear  him  while  I  am  your  protector,"  said 
"Walsingham,  soothingly. 

Viola  resumed  :  "  Do  you  know  that  the  strange  enthusiast, 
whom  we  saw  yesterday,  recalled  to  my  mind  its  image  of  my 
father?" 

"  Did  he  resemble  him  ?" 

"No;  yet  he  reminded  me  of  him.  I  think  my  father 
must  have  been  large  and  powerful — this  man  was  wasted 
and  frail.  My  father  was  fierce  and  wrathful — the  stranger 
calm  and  contemplative ;  yet  when  I  saw  one;  I  thought  of  the 
other." 


140  EROS    AND    /NTEROS. 

"The  stranger  was  a  mysterious-looking  man,  and  your 
father  has  been  enveloped  in  mystery — that  was  the  associa- 
tion." 

"  But  I  would  like  to  know  if  he  still  lives,  and  why  he 
neglects  his  daughter,  and  also — (her  voice  fell  here) — what 
claim  that  daughter  has  upon  Mr.  Walsingham's  kindness." 

Walsingham  answered  quietly,  "  I  never  knew  your  father, 
Viola,  but  I  fear  he  was  not  worthy  of  the  child,  Heaven  gave 
him.  Your  mother  was  a  cousin,  whom  I  loved.  She  was  not 
happy  in  her  wedded  life,  and-  when  she  died  I  adopted  her 
little  daughter  in  my  heart.  Does  she  receive  me  in  her 
father's  stead  ?" 

With  a  grateful  girlish  impulse  she  caught  his  hand,  and 
pressed  it  to  her  lips. 

The  flush  deepened  on  his  brow.  "  Not  so,"  he  said,  "  you 
were  to  me  a  benefaction.  I  should  not  be  the  man  I  am  to- 
day but  for  your  influence." 

She  looked  inquiringly. 

"  Under  the  influence  of  an  early  grief  my  mind  had  grown 
morbid  and  diseased;  you,  then  a  little  child,  were  its  physi- 
cian." 

"  Oh,  see !"  said  Viola,  "  there  is  the  very  hollow  oak  in 
which  Uncle  Captain  caught  my  gray  squirrel,  and  here,  the 
honeysuckles  were  so  abundant — oh,  every  step  is  full  of  re- 
membrance !"  and  aa  they  rode  onward  the  excited  girl  poured 
out  the  fullness  of  her  innocent  heart  to  him. 

"  And  here,"  said  Walsingham,  "  is  the  Eyrie.  The  wil- 
derness has  reclaimed  its  own." 


CHANGES.  141 

It  had,  indeed !  A  growth  of  wild  underbrush  filled  up 
the  garden,  the  very  paths  of  which  were  effaced  by  the  rank- 
ness  of  vegetation  j  the  porches  were  green  with  moss  and 
mould ;  the  windows  shattered ;  the  walls  weatherstained  and 
foul. 

"  Where  are  Mrs.  Grey,  and  Cuff,  and  Chloe,  and  the  birds, 
and  chickens  ?"  cried  Viola. 

"  The  birds  remain,"  said  Walsingham. 

"No,  these  are  a  wild  race  of  savages.  Where  are  the 
familiar  little  cat-birds  who  used  to  peer  into  my  eyes,  and  tell 
me  things  ?  Where  are  the  pigeons  that  would  come  at  Uncle 
Captain's  call  ?" 

"  All  these  we  can  restore,  but  never  the  years  I  wasted 
here.  I  was  a  Rip  Van  Winkle,  sleeping  away  my  youth." 

Walsingham  felt  strangely  impelled  to  confide  in  this  com- 
-  panionable  girl,  who  had  opened  her  young  heart  to  him. 

"  You  said  you  met  with  a  misfortune  in  early  life  which 
crushed  your  energies.  Tell  me  more." 

"  I  buried  myself  in  these  solitudes,  and  became  a  melan- 
choly dreamer — an  idealist — a  hermit  living  in  visions  of  tho 
past,  while  the  precious  present  was  ever  dissolving,  and 
gone. 

"  It  was  a  sad  waste,"  said  he,  "  but  it  shall  be  retrieved. 
Here,  on  this  very  spot,  where  I  sank,  entranced,  shall  my 
aroused  energies  redeem  the  past.  Where  I  once  dreamed 
will  I  now  labour." 

As  he  continued  to  walk  aznid  the  desolations  which  time 
had  gathered  around  his  home5  he  felt  no  longer  isolated  from 


142  EROS    AND    ANTEKOc. 

his  kind,  as  formerly,  but  knew  himself  to  be  one  of  a  striving, 
struggling,  suffering  race;  he  belonged  to  the  great  human 
family,  and  for  that  family  he  would  labour  in  love.  He 
thought  of  the  travellers  of  yesterday — the  one  ignorant  and 
vulgar,  the  other  brainsick — and  found  something  to  imitate 
in  both.  Like  the  enthusiast,  he  would  gaze  through  space 
upon  the  distant  and  intangible  truths  of  nature,  and,  like 
Midas  Mitten,  he  would  reduce  them  to  practical  uses.  He 
would  study,  he  would  ponder,  he  would  compile,  and  the 
great  human  brotherhood  should  enjoy  the  fruit.  The  mar- 
vels of  science  should  not  merely  excite  the  wonder  of  gaping 
men,  but  should  minister  to  their  daily  necessities.  His  school- 
craft  should  teach  men  better  handicraft.  His  knowledge 
should  be  a  working  knowledge. 

He  who  once  despised  mankind  had  "  unlearned  contempt.'' 
With  the  humility  of  enlarged  wisdom  he  recognised  in  all  men 
brothers  and  equals.  Equals  in  their  rights,  tfteir  aspirations, 
their  wants  and  weaknesses — equals  in  the  eye  of  God.  Of 
this  increased  respect  for  his  race  was  born  that  desire  for  the 
esteem  of  men  which  is  ambition ;  and  he  thought,  with  a  glow 
of  pleasure  flushing  his  pale  face,  that  his  name  might  remain 
a  beacon,  to  the  earnest  and  inquiring,  when  he  should  have 
passed  away. 

"  I  am  a  man  and  have  desires  within  me," 

he  repeated,  as  with  one  more  survey  of  his  crazy  dwelling  he 
turned  away,  full  of  plans  for  the  future,  full  of  the  business 


CHANGES.  143 

of  life,  fu  1  of  its  earnest  concerns  as  George  Irving  himself 
would  desire. 

"  I  will  make  it  blossom  like  the  rose,"  he  said  to  Viola,  ag 
they  rode  homeward.  "The  house  shall  be  repaired  and 
placed  at  your  disposal.  My  study  will  make  a  charming 
boudoir  for  you.  I  shall  build  a  sanctum  for  myself  on  the 
edge  of  the  precipice — I  like  a  leaning  tower — to  which  I 
shall  invoke  "  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep."  Mrs.  Grey  will 
return  with  a  retinue  of  pets,  and  I  will  cultivate  a  dove  cote, 
and  devote  myself  to  the  taming  of  cat-birds  :  will  that  do  ?" 

How  reserve  had  melted,  and  what  good  friends  they  had 
become  during  that  mountain  ride ! 

"As  she  fled  fast  through  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  played, 
Parting  the  ringlet  from  the  braid : 
She  looked  so  lovely  as  she  swayed 
The  rein  with  dainty  finger  tips." 

They  visited  Mrs.  Grey  before  returning,  much  to  that  good 
woman's  delight.  They  found  her  on  a  bench  under  an  apple 
tree  sewing,  with  the  old  kitchen  clock  by  her  .side,  clicking 
with  unabated  zeal. 

"  I  told  you  they'd  be  sure  to  come  home  some  day,"  she 
remarked  triumphantly  to  that  mute  friend. 

"  And  where  are  my  old  playfellows,  Cuff  and  Chloe  ?" 
inquired  Viola. 

"  Dear  heart !  do  you  remember  the  poor  creeturs  ?  They 
both  died  for  me;  and  then  I  took  Jim.  People  do  say  Jim 


144  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

will  never  die — I'm  sure  I  hope  not — but  where  is  he  ?  Jirn  ! 
Jim  I" 

Jim,  a  solemn  and  sententious  crow,  as  black  as  his  prede- 
cessors, came  hopping  on  one  foot,  and  examined  his  new 
acquaintances  with  imperturbable  gravity. 

Viola  laughed  and  clapped  her  hands  like  a  child. 

"We  shall  be  great  friends,  most  grave  and  reverend 
seignior." 

That  evening  when  the  girls  played  a  duet  together,  and  the 
pretty  mother  sat  sewing  and  listening  to  Walsingham,  George 
Irving  peered  over  his  newspaper  and  wondered  if  she  did 
not  think  her  liege  lord  a  dullard,  compared  with  that  brilliant 
gentleman. 


145 


CHAPTER   XIX. 


WALSINGIIAM  found  that  the  season  was  already  too  ad- 
vanced to  admit  of  building,  and  the  projected  study  was 
reluctantly  deferred  until  the  summer.  The  dwelling,  how- 
ever, was  thoroughly  repaired,  and  by  Christmas  he  had  taken 
possession. 

Mrs.  Grey  had  convoyed  the  furniture  to  the  top  of 
the  bluff  herself;  and  with  the  clock  under  one  arm,  and  the 
Bible  under  the  other,  was  the  first  to  enter  the  renovated 
dwelling.  "  They're  lucky  things  to  head  a  moving  with,  and 
may  save  you  time  and  eternity,  Jim." 

Jim  dropped  his  eyelids  sanctimoniously.  He  had  so  long 
a  lease  of  time  that  he  felt  rather  indifferent  to  eternity,  but 
it  would  not  be  decorous  to  show  it.  So  the  precious  black 
hypocrite  hopped  after  his  mistress,  with  the  air  of  an  elder, 
and  spent  the  day  in  watching  for  something  upon  which  he 
could  lay  his  pilfering  claw. 

Viola's  delight  on  returning  to  her  old  home  was  a  puzzle  to 
Walsingham.  His  own  associations  with  the  place  were  sombre, 
13 


146  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

and  he  used  to  think  with  compassion  of  her,  as  a  fair  child 
whose  life  had  been  subdued  and  overshadowed  in  his  joyless 
home.  So  little  did  he  comprehend  the  beautiful  mystery  of 
an  imaginative  childhood.  She  had  not  lived  in  his  sad  world, 
but  in  a  rich  and  glowing  realm  of  her  own  creation.  There 
had  been  an  ever  gushing  fountain  of  joy  in  her  young  heart ; 
an  unextinguishable  inner  light  which  illumined  all  without. 
She  had  been  a  quiet  child,  not  because  she  was  a  sad  one, 
but  because  she  was  alone,  and  it  is  only  in  couples  that 
children  grow  noisy;  but  she  had  been  happier  than  the 
veriest  romp  that  takes  her  daily  fill  of  boisterous  sport.  Nay, 
her  dreamy  contemplative  happiness  possessed  more  substance ; 
it  could  be  carried  into  the  future  for  memory  to  feast  upon. 

She  had  loved,  when  at  her  desk,  to  close  her  eyes  upon 
wearisome  books,  and  recall  the  delicious  sensations  of  her 
unfettered  life ;  through  all  the  harsh  restraints  and  irksome 
tasks  of  school,  her  fancy  revelled  in  the  freedom  of  the 
Eyrie ;  it  was  remembered  as  an  enchanted  palace,  in  which 
care  or  sorrow  dared  not  intrude :  this  was  her  little  past. 

It  is  astonishing  what  a  respect  we  all  have  for  our  child- 
hood !  "We  regard  it  with  admiring  pride,  as  a  beautiful  ro- 
mance of  which  we  were  the  hero ;  a  fairy  life  from  which, 
alas !  we  have  been  disenchanted.  We  reverence  it  as  some- 
thing better  than  ourselves — and  so  it  is !  Why  is  it,  then, 
that  we  are  so  impatient  toward  childhood,  when  this  beauti- 
ful, better  life,  which  has  passed  from  us,  is  transferred  to  the 
children  around  us  ?  Why  do  we  seek  to  make  them  wise, 
and  polite,  and  mannish  like  ourselves  ?  Why  do  we  embitter 


HOME.  147 

their  little  joys,  and  shatter  their  bright  illusions  with  max- 
ims and  reproof,  against  which  our  own  youth,  our  better  self, 
would  have  rebelled  ? 

You  do  not  get  along  very  well  with  your  children,  for  John 
is  so  noisy,  and  Ben  so  mischievous,  and  Sallie  so  stupid ! 
Dive  through  the  flood  of  time  that  separates  you  from  your 
own  early  experiences ;  ponder  them  as  a  book,  and  they  may 
aid  you  to  unravel  this.  You  may  find  that  John's  noise,  so 
harsh  and  hideous,  was  not  always  noise  to  you,  as  it  is  not 
to  him.  It  is  music  !  the  music  of  the  spheres  !  Poor  fellow, 
let  him  enjoy  it !  A  few  years  more,  and  it  will  cease  to 
echo  in  his  soul  as  it  has  done  long  since  in  yours !  Ben  does 
not  break,  and  tear,  and  tangle  with  malice  prepense,  and  is 
no  more  responsible  for  damage  done,  than  a  bull  in  a  china 
shop,  or  any  other  young  animal  following  its  natural  instincts 
amid  the  artificial  restraints  of  life.  Do  not  fill  his  loving, 
happy,  awkward  heart  with  distress  for  offences  never  in- 
tended and  hardly  understood.  When  he  grows  older  he  will 
appreciate  at  their  cost  the  precious  adornments  of  life. 

And  Sally !  sweet,  stupid  Sally,  so  full  of  her  own  fancies 
that  she  will  not  comprehend  your  teachings ;  why  should  she 
understand  you  ?  You  do  not  half  understand  her. 

These  vagrants  have  led  me  a  chase !  Where  were  we  ? 
Oh,  in  the  Eyrie,  expounding  Viola's  regard  for  the  same. 
Such  and  such  were  Viola's  feelings  towards  that  peaceful 
home ;  and  what  were  the  guardian's  feelings  towards  Viola  ? 
He  did  not  attempt  to  define  them  himself,  and  we  can  hardly 
do  ^  for  him. 


148  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

The  difference  in  their  respective  ages  caused  him  to  regard 
her  as  somewhat  of  a  child  still.  He  grew  well  acquainted 
with  her  young  ladyship  in  the  long  winter  evenings,  and 
found  she  concentrated  in  herself  the  qualities  of  two  beings 
who  had  exercised  a  powerful  influence  for  good  or  evil  over 
his  heart — her  child  self,  and  her  lost  mother;  and  he  loved 
her  for  the  sake  of  both.  He  loved  her  as  world-worn  men 
love  that  which  is  brighter,  purer,  better  than  themselves ;  as 
fathers  love  their  gentle  daughters.  A  daughter  seemed  she 
to  him — the  lost  Viola's  daughter  and  his  own !  The  Viola 
who  had  won  his  early  love,  passed  hence  like  a  vision  and 
left  this  glorious  legacy  to  him. 

There  was  that  in  the  character  of  Viola  which  belonged 
purely  to  her  present  self,  and  had  no  connexion  with  her 
childhood,  or  her  mother.  Her  intellect  was  stronger,  and 
her  nature  more  earnest.  Walsingham  felt  that  life  in  the 
Eyrie  was  not  solitary  now,  for  there  was  beautiful  companion- 
ship in  the  quick  appreciative  mind  ever  ready  to  comprehend 
and  respond  to  his  own.  Life  in  the  Eyrie  was  no  longer  soli- 
tary for  another  reason.  The  Irvings  came  often  to  visit  their 
fair  friend,  sometimes  to  dine,  sometimes  to  tea,  sometimes  to 
spend  a  few  days.  The  village  people,  too,  called  with  coun- 
try hospitality  and  invitations,  and  these  civilities  were  recip- 
rocated by  Viola.  Music,  and  dancing,  and  laughter  became 
familiar  to  those  old  walls ;  and  often,  after  a  merry  winter 
evening  had  passed,  would  a  well-filled  sledge  glide  from  the 
door,  over  the  smooth  snow  and  down  the  moonlit  mountain 


HOME.  149 

road,  to  the  music  of  tinkling  bells  and  glad  young  voices 
Oh,  I  remember !     Such  glorious  visiting  ! 

Thus  passed  the  winter  quickly,  and  the  spring  came — the 
snow  vanished,  the  mountain  road  became  impassable,  and 
then — why  then  there  were  books  to  read,  songs  to  sing,  and 
nameless  household  duties  to  be  performed,  with  a  mysterious 
assumption  of  womanly  dignity;  for  Viola  was  not 

"  Too  bright  and  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food." 


18  • 


150  EROS    AND    ANTEUOS. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

AN   ARRIVAL. 

ONE  misty  March  morning,  Viola  stood  at  the  drawing-room 
window,  gazing  out  upon  the  sea  of  fog  that  encompassed  the 
mountain,  and  counting  the  days  since  she  had  seen  Helen, 
when  Walsingham  passed  the  window.  He  was  equipped  for 
driving ;  seeing  her  bright  face  at  the  window,  he  threw  up 
the  sash,  saying, 

"  The  sky  is  leaden  enough,  but  I  can  promise  you  sunshine 
before  the  day  closes." 

"  I  fear  I  shall  not  value  it,"  she  answered ;  "  for  I  love 
these  warm  moist  spring  mornings;  they  are  delicious  after 
the  winter's  cold." 

"  Come  out  and  enjoy  this — it  is  so  soft  and  mild — the  very 
birds  are  rejoicing." 

She  smiled  assent,  and  quickly  joined  him  on  the  piazza. 
A  soft  south  wind  played  with  her  flowing  curls,  while  in 
the  naked  tree-tops  the  blue-birds  twittered  to  each  other, 
announcing  the  spring. 


AN    ARRIVAL.  151 

"  Hark,"  said  she,  as  she  listened ;  "  the  time  of  the  sing- 
ing of  birds  is  come  ." 

"  You  can  enjoy  these  voices  of  spring,  while  I  must  essay 
the  execrable  spring  roads.  Pity  me,  for  I  must  driva  down 
the  mountain  this  morning." 

"  I  pity  you  so  much,"  she  answered,  with  her  merry  laugh, 
"  that  I  shall  share  the  discomfort  with  you." 

"  You  will  find  the  drive  villanous  !" 

"  N'importe  !  it  is  short,  and  I  would  like  so  much  to  go," 

"  For  my  sake,  or  for  Helen's  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  What  an  inquisitive  guardian !"  she  said.  "  I  must  ex- 
amine my  heart  and  confess :  I  want  to  go  partly  for  the 
sake  of  a  tgte-a-tete  with  you,  partly  for  the  sake  of  surprising 
Helen,  and  partly  to  feel  the  fresh  south  wind,  and  hear  the 
singing  blue-birds." 

"Honestly  confessed;  and  because  I  have  been  included 
in  the  category,  you  shall  come." 

And  jolting,  splashing,  down  the  mountain  road  they  came, 
to  Mrs.  Irving's  door,  where  they  met  with  a  surprised  wel- 
come, the  family  believing  the  road  to  be  impassable. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come,"  said  Helen,  embracing  her 
friend ;  "  for  I  have  such  news  !  What  do  you  think  of  seeing 
Howard?" 

"  I  think  I  should  not  know  him  without  an  introduction." 

" Oh,  true;  you  have  not  seen  him  since  he  was  a  boy," 
said  Helen,  looking  a  little  disappointed  by  the  cool  reception 
her  friend  gave  to  "  such  news." 

"  Well,  he  will  be  home  this  summer  to  spend  his  vacation, 


152  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

and  will  bring  with  him  his  friend,  of  whom  you  have  heard 
me  speak.  Cola  is  his  name — Cola  Conway — do  you  think  it 
pretty  ?  Howard  fills  his  letters  with  its  euphonious  syllables. 
If  he  were  to  write  half  as  much  about  a  lady,  I  should  set 
my  heart  in  order  to  receive  a  sister  before  long." 

"Perhaps  he  expects  you  to  set  your  heart  in  order  to 
receive  a  lover  in  this  Cola  Conway." 

Helen  flushed  slightly,  while  her  friend  continued  : 

"  How  delighted  I  shall  be  to  see  Howard  again !  I 
remember  him  as  a  very  vehement  boy,  with  black  eyes  and 
sunbrowned  face,  of  whom  I  was  half  fond,  half  afraid.  When 
Howard  played  with  us  I  felt  as  though  we  stood  on  a  vol- 
cano." 

"Poor  fellow!  He  used  to  be  so  explosive,"  laughed 
Helen ;  "  and  you  were  so  timid,  too.  No  doubt  his  temper 
is  still  violent,  but  he  has  learned  self-control ;  and  then  he 
has  grown  so  handsome  !  Last  vacation,  when  I  was  home,  I 
admired  him  more  than  any  young  gentleman  I  had  ever 
seen,  which  was  unfortunate,  considering  he  was  my  brother, 
was  it  not?" 

"  It  was  very  natural,"  responded  her  friend,  "  because  you 
love  him.  I  think  Mr.  Walsingham  the  handsomest  man  I 
ever  saw." 

One  bright  summer  morning,  when  Viola  was  among  her 
roses,  Walsingham  sought  her  with  news.  The  long-expected 
guests  had  arrived. 

He  had  learned  this  while  in  the  village,  and  immediately 
called  at  Mr.  Irving's  j  had  had  half  an  hour's  conversation 


AN    ARRIVAL.  153 

with  the  young  gentlemen,  and  invited  them  to  dine  with  him. 
the  following  day. 

"  How  extremely  prompt  you  have  been  in  your  civilities  1" 
she  said,  looking  gratified. 

"Solely  on  your  account,"  he  answered.  "I  feared  lest 
you  would  call  upon  them  also." 

"I  am  afraid  I  should,"  she  said,  laughing,  "and  thank 
you  for  your  consideration.  Is  Howard  very  handsome  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Walsingham,  with  a  slight  tincture 
of  that  dignified  superciliousness,  which  you  may  have  ob- 
served in  men  when  the  personal  appearance  of  another  is 
discussed.  They  are  so  sceptical  upon  the  subject  of  manly 
beauty,  unless,  indeed — but,  no  matter ! — "  I  do  not  know — I 
thiuk  not." 

"  Helen  told  me  he  was  remarkably  so." 

"  A  partial  sister  must  be  a  partial  judge,"  he  answered, 
with  more  gravity  than  was  usual  to  him  when  addressing  her. 
It  is  possible  that  he  felt  concerned  to  find  her  interested  in 
the  good  looks  of  young  gentlemen.  Be  this  as  it  may,  she 
instinctively  felt  that  it  was  best  to  forbear  further  question- 
ing. 

The  next  day  she  decided  this  important  point  to  her  satis- 
faction, without  his  aid.  Howard  was  certainly  handsome. 
He  was  tall,  well-knit,  and  firm  in  figure,  like  his  father;  and, 
when  fully  matured,  would,  doubtless,  be  a  powerful  man. 
His  features  were  regular  and  well-formed,  but  large,  par- 
taking of  the  massiveness  of  his  frame.  His  carriage  was  digni- 


154  EROS     AND     ANTEROS. 

fied  and  manly,  and  his  whole  appearance  noble  The  repose 
of  his  manner  she  thought  hardly  natural,  contrasting,  as  it  did, 
with  his  well-remembered  boyish  impetuosity.  This  mastery 
over  self  was  indeed  an  acquired  grace ;  acquired  by  indomi- 
table resolution,  and  maintained  only  by  constant  watchfulness. 
His  dark  eye  was  true  to  his  strong  nature,  and,  scorning 
restraint,  flashed  with  the  olden  fire. 

Friends  often  present  fine  contrasts,  so  prone  are  men  to 
assimilate  with  their  antipodes.  Mr.  Conway  was  light,  ele- 
gant, and  graceful,  reminding  one  of  the  troubadour  or  page 
of  chivalric  story.  A  very  Apollo,  as  his  friend  was  a  Her- 
cules. He  sparkled  with  bon-mots,  was  ready  at  impromptus, 
sketched  with  facility,  played  to  his  own  satisfaction,  with  a 
versatility  that  made  him  the  envy  of  less  accomplished  youths. 
There  was  an  open,  frank  expression  in  his  face,  which  at  once 
prepossessed  the  beholder ;  and  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  add, 
after  this  enumeration  of  his  accomplishments,  that  he  was  a 
favourite  with  the  ladies. 

He  sat  at  Viola's  left  hand  at  dinner,  with  Helen  vis-a-vis, 
where  he  shone  with  more  than  usual  brilliancy,  feeling  quite 
at  home  with  the  friends  of  his  friend.  Viola  thought  him 
very  amusing,  while  Helen  rendered  the  highest  tribute  to 
his  powers,  in  believing  him  worthy  of  Howard's  praises. 

"Look  at  that  man,  Conway,"  said  Reward,  after  they  had 
sought  the  drawing-room.  "Look  at  Walsingham;  for  you 
have  never  looked  upon  his  like  before  !  All  my  life  he  has 
exercised  an  unconscious  influence*  over  me.  He  was  die 


AN    ARRIVAL.  155 

sphynx  of  my  meditative  boyhood,  solemn,  silent,  mysterious, 
and  grand !  Tae  sphynx  speaks  now,  and  its  revelations  are 
sublime." 

"  He's  a  glorious  old  fellow  ! — may  he  outlive  his  stony  pro- 
totype. And  did  you  reverence  the  young  lady,  too  ?" 

"  The  young  lady  was  a  timid  child,  over  whom  I  tyran- 
nized most  royally !" 

"  May  she  never  forgive  you  for  the  same !" 

"  Spoken  with  the  malice  of  a  friend  I" 

"  I  intend  making  a  favourable  impression/'  said  Conway, 
with  arch  coxcombry,  "  and  would  have  such  a  formidable  rival 
out  of  the  way.  How  would  I  come  out  in  a  race  with  Levia- 
than ?" 

"As  the  antelope,  when  measuring  speed  with  the  elephant." 

"  Where  do  you  find  the  fable  ?" 

"Nowhere.  I  intend  writing  it  when  I  see  which  will 
win."  - 

"  Eh  bien,  Mr.  Elephant,  I  have  the  start  of  you  already, 
for  see  !  Mr.  Walsingham  comes  from  the  piano  to  invite  me 
to  sing." 

"  More  likely  to  reprove  you  for  chattering  like  a  monkey 
while  the  ladies  were  singing !" 

Conway's  surmise  was  correct.  Walsingham  was  commis- 
sioned by  the  ladies  to  desire  a  song  from  him.  He  obeyed 
•with  cheerful  alacrity,  and  in  a  full  rich  manly  voice  sang 
Moore'rf  exquisite  lines, 

"  Fly  to  the  deserts,  fly  with  me." 


156  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"How  beautiful,"  whispered  Viola  to  her  guardian,  "to 
wed  the  rich  fancies  of  the  poet  to  such  melody !" 

And  now  the  music  changed,  and,  after  a  prelude,  solemn 
and  sad,  Conway  sang  an  evening  hymn.  The  song  was  ex- 
tremely beautiful,  and  the  hushed  little  party  listened  to  its 
mournful  cadences  in  silence. 

Walsingham's  eyes,  as  usual,  rested  on  Viola's  face,  when 
suddenly  she  threw  her  hands  toward  the  singer,  with  a  faint 
cry,  and  bursting  into  tears,  hid  her  face  in  Mrs.  Irving's 
bosom. 

Walsingham  was  by  her  side  instantly,  distressed  and 
alarmed. 

As  she  lay  sobbing  in  Mrs.  Irving's  arms,  he  lifted  the 
curls  that  hiH  her  hot  face  from  his  tender  scrutiny,  saying, 
"  My  poor  little  Viola,  what  has  befallen  you  ?" 

"Do  not  tease  her,"  said  Mrs.  Irving,  impatiently  pushing 
him  away.  "  You  men  must  always  probe  a  wound  !  It  is 
only  excitement  and  nervousness.  Let  her  cry — it  will  do  her 
good." 

Walsingham  had  not  seen  Viola  weep  since  her  childhood. 
He  had  no  faith  in  excitability  or  nervousness,  or  any  of  those 
slight  excuses  which  females  make  for  violent  demonstrations, 
neither  did  he  perceive  how  this  agitation  could  be  of  advan- 
tage to  Viola.  He  was  convinced  that  something  had  shocked 
and  distressed  her.  Sorrow  had  reached  her  in  his  very  pre- 
sence, and  he  must — he  would — know  what  had  moved  his 
bright  joyous  darling  to  tears. 


AN    ARRIVAL.  157 

"  If  she  is  in  grief  her  friends  must  know  the  cause,  that 
they  may  comfort  her,"  he  remarked  to  Mrs.  Irving. 

"  Do  not  magnify  a  trifle/'  answered  that  lady.  "  She  was 
touched  by  the  music,  I  suppose." 

Viola,  grateful  for  his  anxiety,  hastened  to  relieve  it.  Con- 
trolling her  emotion,  she  lifted  her  flushed  face,  and  placing  a 
little  hand  in  his,  whispered,  "  I  have  been  too  foolish,  but 
will  tell  you  why  by  and  by." 

When  the  guests  had  departed,  and  Helen,  who  remained 
with  her  friend,  retired,  Viola  stole  to  Walsingham's  study. 
He  rose  with  a  smile  of  welcome  as  she  entered,  and  placed  a 
chair  for  her. 

"  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  come  to  you  after  my  folly  of  to- 
day," she  began,  blushing,  "  but  I  could  not  sleep  until  I  had 
begged  your  indulgence." 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  come.  I  should  not  have  slept  either, 
had  I  been  left  to  conjecture  the  cause  of  your  distress." 

"  You  embarrass  me  when  you  apply  so  great  a  word  to  a 
trifle.  I  was  only  shocked  by  the  operations  of  my  own 
mind.  The  whole  thing  is  so  confused  and  vague  I  hardly 
know  how  to  explain  it  to  you. 

"  When  Mr.  Conway  began  to  sing,  the  music  struck  some 
pleasant  chord  in  momory.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  often 
lulled  io  sleep  by  those  sweet  sounds,  and  I  abandoned  myself 
dreamily  to  their  influence.  Suddenly  I  began  to  question 
where  I  could  have  heard  them  before,  and  at  last  a  vivid  re- 
membrance flashed  upon  me,  like  a  picture,  of  a  dying  fire- 
light— a  poor  dark  room — a  lady,  sad,  tender,  and  beautiful, 
14 


158  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

with  a  dreamy  child  upon  her  bosom,  and  around  all,  like  an 
atmosphere,  this  music  floated."  Here  her  voice  trembled  and 
failed,  but,  with  a  final  effort,  she  added, — "  Then  I  knew  I 
heard  again  the  hymn  my  lost  mother  used  to  sing  to  her  poor 
child." 

"  Poor  child  !  poor  child !"  he  echoed,  smoothing  her  soft 
hair. 

This  was  the  second  time  she  had  named  her  mother.  It 
had  seemed  to  be  a  subject  too  sacred  for  words,  and  he  was 
touched  by  her  confidence  as  well  as  by  her  emotion. 

"  Do  not  pity  me,"  she  said,  looking  up  with  her  brightest 
smile,  "  I  am  very,  very  happy  now.  It  was  for  the  sorrows 
of  the  poor  little  bereaved  one  that  I  wept.  She  seems  like  a 
child  that  I  knew  and  loved,  and  pitied,  long  ago.  I  hardly 
identify  her  with  my  happy  self." 

"  Bless  you  !"  said  "Walsingham  fervently. 

"  Viola,  it  is  the  desire  of  my  life  to  see  you  happy,  and  I 
am  almost  grateful  to  you  for  being  so,  and  now  good-night, 
my"- 

She  paused,  and  looked  him  in  the  face,  as  though  to  in- 
quire what  he  would  have  added,  but  had  suppressed. 

"Good-night,  my  little  girl." 


THE    NONSENSE    OP    YOUTH.  159 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

THE  NONSENSE  OF  YOUTH. 

"  Where  frowued  the  fort,  pavilions  gay, 
And  cottage  windows,  flower  entwined, 
Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind." 

WHITTIER. 

HELEN  remained  all  night  with  her  friend,  and  the  next 
morning  the  gentlemen  called  to  inquire  after  Miss  Walsing- 
ham's  health,  and  take  Miss  Irving  home.  They  found  Viola 
quite  herself  again,  and  bewitchingly  beautiful;  at  least  so 
thought  Howard,  who,  seating  himself  near  her,  endeavoured 
to  engross  her  attention,  while  Helen  obligingly  entertained 
his  friend.  Viola  was  not  sorry  to  have  a  few  moments'  con- 
versation with  him,  as  her  curiosity  had  not  been  appeased  by 
the  slender  opportunities  of  yesterday.  He  conversed  with 
tact  and  originality,  and  she  thought  that,  if  not  as  brilliant 
as  his  friend,  he  was  infinitely  more  interesting — she  liked  his 
earnestness. 


160  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

Mr.  Conway,  meanwhile,  seemed  much  interested  in  How- 
ard's sister,  and  excited  his  multiform  powers  for  her  enter- 
tainment; while  Helen,  who  was  never  ungrateful  for  any 
effort  made  in  her  behalf,  looked  so  amiably  appreciative  that 
he  could  not  help  admiring  her  while  he  talked. 

Helen,  although  not  strictly  beautiful,  was  an  attractive 
girl.  Her  excellent  understanding,  and  no  less  excellent 
heart,  her  fine  feminine  character  so  shone  forth  in  all  she 
did,  that  one  felt  sympathetically  attracted  by  the  subtle  influ- 
ence of  her  quiet  gifts.  She  was  extremely  timid  in  the 
presence  of  strangers,  and  blushed  on  the  slightest  provoca- 
tion. As  she  listened  to  the  sparkling  Conway  her  colour 
would  come  and  go,  flit  and  fade  with  the  beautiful  variability 
of  the  northern  light.  This  was  the  only  betrayer  of  her 
bashfulness,  so  thoroughly  was  it  subjected  to  her  breeding. 
Never  was  she  so  overcome  by  constitutional  shyness  as  to  for- 
get what  was  due  to  society  and  to  herself. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  pleased  with  the  natural  scenery  around 
us,"  she  said,  in  reply  to  his  repeated  admiration ;  "  it  is  not 
only  beautiful,  but  abounds  in  Indian  legends  and  historical 
incidents.  When  you  become  familiar  with  its  points  of  local 
interest,  it  will  be  haunted  ground  to  you." 

"  The  country  seems  hardly  old  enough  for  that,"  said  Con- 
way,  who,  like  all  students,  had  great  veneration  for  antiquity. 

"It  is  true,"  replied  Helen;  "its  known  history  does  not 
extend  much  farther  back  than  the  memory  of  the  oldest 
inhabitant.  There  are  men  living  who  remember  when  all 
this  cultivated  country  was  a  primeval  wilderness,  and  the 


THE    NONSENSE    OP    YOUTH.  161 

hunting-ground  of  the  Shawnees  and  Mohicans  lay  in  the  rich 
valley  of  the  Susquehanna.  But  where  it  loses  in  antiquity 
it  gains  in  interest  j  for  the  appalling  facts  of  history  are  never 
so  forcibly  realized  as  when  received  from  the  lips  of  actual 
participators." 

"  But/'  answered  Conway  with  animation,  "  should  not  the 
narrative  be  received  with  distrust  because  of  the  excited  feel- 
ings and  personal  prejudices  of  the  narrator?  Your  old 
inhabitant  will  dwell  with  holy  horror  upon  the  vindictiveness, 
the  cruelty,  the  insatiate  blood- thirst  of  the  savage,  and  not 
think  worthy  of  mention  the  red  man's  goads  to  vengeance  in 
his  outraged  rights  and  alienated  possessions." 

"  Prejudice,  I  fear,"  said  Helen,  "  does  not  tincture  tradi- 
tion only  :  the  integrity  of  hirtory  itself  is  more  or  less  impaired 
by  human  bias.  The  most  careful  historians  difier  in  infer- 
ences, conclusions,  and  estimate  of  facts,  even  when  facts 
themselves  are  beyond  dispute." 

"  Horrible  !  horrible  !"  exclaimed  Howard,  starting  to  his 
feet  with  his  fingers  in  his  ears.  "  Have  I  lived  to  hear  my 
sister  a  pedant  1" 

Helen  was  covered  with  blushes,  but  answered  in  the  same 
mock-heroic  tone,  "Woe  is  me,  that  I  find  my  brother  a 
critic !" 

Conway  laughed  merrily,  and  essayed  to  comfort  her,  by 
assuring  her  it  was  the  besetting  sin  of  brotherhood.  He  had 
half  a  dozen  chums,  good  fellows  every  one,  and  free  and  easy; 
but,  to  a  man,  oppressively  hypercritical  to  their  sisters.  If 
John  Smith's  sister  ventured  to  remark  that  it  was  cold,  John, 
14* 


162  EROS    AND    ANTERO8. 

with  brotherly  impertinence,  would  remind  her  that  she  had 
chosen  an  original  subject  for  conversation.  If  Mary  Jones 
expressed  an  innocent  desire  tc  walk,  her  brother  Tom  would 
elegantly  insinuate  she  was  always  on  the  trot.  If  Sally  Brown 
dealt  in  commonplaces,  Ben  was  sure  to  beg  her  not  to  be 
silly;  and  if  she  aimed  at  something  more  than  ordinary,  he 
was  equally  urgent  upon  her  not  to  show  off.  For  his  part,  he 
was  thankful  that  he  had  not  a  sister  to  oppress,  and  thought 
Miss  Walsingham  was  fortunate  in  being  free  from  a  brother's 
thrall. 

"  Nay,"  said  Viola,  "  I  could  be  grateful  for  that  sensitive 
affection  which  is  so  keenly  alive  to  the  imperfections  of  its 
object.  The  brother  whose  watchful  love  was  jealous  of  my 
faults  might  make  unamiable  manifestations  with  impunity.'' 

Helen  looked  fondly  at  her  brother,  as  if  to  say  she  felt  all 
that  her  friend  had  expressed ;  while  he  smiled  on  her  proudly, 
as  though  he  did  not  see  any  serious  fault  in  her. 

"  Apropos  of  interesting  localities,  I  would  like  to  drive  you 

to  Fort  A "  (he  smiled  upon  Viola  as  a  moment  before  he 

had  done  upon  Helen :  certain  it  is  he  saw  no  fault  in  Tier) ; 
"  the  carriage  is  at  the  door,  the  morning  lovely,  and  you  will 
feel  renovated  by  the  drive." 

"Oh,  by  all  means,  come!"  cried  Helen:  "and  then  you 
must  dine  with  us.  It  will  be  such  a  pleasant  surprise  to 
mamma  to  see  you  put  and  looking  well." 

Viola  consented  readily,  and  the  carriage  was  soon  winding 
down  the  mountain  road,  with  as  merry  a  party  as  ever  drove 
through  those  whispering  woodlands  in  the  leafy  month  of 


THE    NONSENSE    OP    YOUTH.  163 

June.  Ani  now  they  were  upon  the  bridge ;  that  fairy-like 
latticed  structure,  the  airy  arches  of  which  had  been  the 
wonder  of  Viola's  childhood.  The  soft  blue  sky  of  summer 
hung  above  them,  the  majestic  river  swept  beneath,  and  far 
down  its  shining  depths  behold  another  heaven,  spanned  by 
the  white  bow  of  the  graceful  bridge.  A  few  minutes'  driving 
along  the  river  bank  brought  them  to  the  site  of  the  provincial 
fort.  A  commodious  dwelling  of  red  brick,  enclosed  in  a  paled 
yard  and  flanked  by  highly  cultivated  acres,  was  all  that  met 
the  eyes  of  Cola  Conway. 

"  What  is  this ?"  said  he ;  "I  expected  to  see  a  fortress,  or 
at  the  worst  a  ruin." 

"Fortresses  are  no  longer  needed,  and  ruins  cumber  the 
ground,"  answered  Howard.  "  On  the  contrary,  quiet,  happy 
homesteads  are  in  demand,  and  this  is  one." 

"  And  this  trim  home  of  thrift  stands  on  the  site  of  the 
old  Provincial  Fort !  I  cannot  say  that  I  like  the  facility  with 
which  my  countrymen  blot  the  remembrancers  of  great  events 
from  the  face  of  the  earth.  The  landmarks  of  the  past  are 
falling  before  the  ploughshare  of  the  present,  and  the  associa- 
tions of  a  spot  like  this  grow  faint  when  the  mementos  of  its 
story  have  perished." 

He  had  leaped  from  the  carriage,  and  stood,  hat  in  hand, 
surveying  the  scene.  His  usually  animated  face  was  thought- 
ful and  earnest.  A  new  phase,  which  gave  it  new  interest  in 
the  eyes  of  Helen.  She  thought,  as  he  stood  on  the  green 
sward,  the  river  breeze  playing  with  his  chestnut  curls,  -that — 
that  Howard  wa  >  not  the  handsomest  man  she  had  ever  seen. 


164  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

By  that  magnetic  influence  which  all  have  known,  he  felt 
her  eyes  were  on  him,  and  turning  quickly  met  their  admiring 
gaze ;  the  thoughtful  expression  gave  place  to  a  bright,  tri- 
umphant look,  and  Helen,  abashed,  looked  out  toward  the 
farm-house. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  Viola,  "  those  stories  of  the  fort 
old  Aunt  Jeannie  used  to  tell  us  ?  How  brave  the  men  were, 
and  the  women,  too,  although  they  felt  at  the  close  of  each 
day  that  they  might  never  open  their  eyes  upon  another  dawn- 
ing. Often,  in  the  gathering  darkness  of  winter  twilights, 
the  dusky  forms  of  savages  were  seen  stealing  along  the  crags 
of  the  Bluff— there  I" 

The  little  party  turned  toward  the  Bluff.  The  sunshine 
lay  warm  upon  its  ragged  side,  broken  here  and  there  by  the 
shadow  of  pines.  So  bright,  and  warm,  and  peaceful  seemed 
all  things  about  them,  they  could  not  realize  the  perils  past. 

"I  have  often  sat  within  that  dwelling,"  said  Helen, 
"  marking  the  dull  routine  of  daily  commonplaces  move  along, 
and  wondering  how  the  pulses  of  life  could  beat  so  calmly  on 
a  spot  consecrated  in  my  mind  to  deadly  perils  and  mortal 
dread." 

"  That  may  be  a  pretty  bit  of  sentiment,  sweet  sister,"  said 
Howard,  "but  was  it  not  that  peaceful  homes  like  this  should 
brighten  the  land,  that  the  hardy  men  of  old  braved  those 
perils  ?" 

"Doubtless  you  speak  sound  philosophy,"  laughed  Cola, 
whos»  momentary  seriousness  had  vanished;  "but  woe  is  my 


THE    NONSENSE    OP    YOUTH.  165 

country !  her  utilitarian  sons  have  robbed  her  of  her  relics. 
Rome  has  her  ruins — " 

"  And  when  America's  day  of  prosperity  is  passed,  she  will 
have  hers.  Rome  is  a  rum — people  as  well  as  city !  Vagrants 
and  lazzaroni  fill  the  city  of  the  Caesars,  and  desecrate  the 
classic  ground  with  obscene  presence.  Could  I,  by  one  sweep 
of  my  hand,  obliterate  pillar  and  ruin,  palace  and  temple,  and 
raise  upon  the  ground  they  cumber  a  city  of  such  home-like 
homes  as  that,  peopled  by  an  industrious  and  prosperous  race, 
why,  presto  ! — farewell  to  the  ruined  Mecca  of  the  student  and 
the  poet !  Rome  would  be  redeemed  !" 

He  spoke  with  energy,  and  Cola  answered  in  mock  dis- 
tress:, "  Oh,  leveller !  oh,  red  republican  !  And  what  shall 
be  left  for  a  poor  fellow  like  myself  to  dream  over  ?  I  had 
intended  to  sit  me  down,  in  a  fine  frenzy,  at  Fort  Augusta, 
and  indite  a  patriotic  poem — but,  alas !  the  scene  is  too 
bucolic." 

Viola  looked  at  him  attentively  as  he  spoke,  but  without 
the  answering  smile  his  light  sally  seemed  to  demand.  How- 
ard, who  watched  her  face,  bent  his  head  toward  her,  saying-— 

"  I  would  give  much  to  know  your  thoughts." 

"  I  was  thinking,"  she  said,  with  a  blush — for  his  earnest 
manner  had  startled  her — "  I  was  thinking  that  your  poetic 
friend  should  select  a  subject  for  his  song  from  the  themes  of 
the  troubadour." 

"  And  was  that  all?"  inquired  Howard,  with  his  penetrating 
gaze  still  fixed  upon  her  face. 

"  No,  that  was  not  all,"  she  answered,  simply. 


166  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

He  continued  to  look  the  question  he  dared  not  press  in 
words  f  hut  she  appeared  unconscious  of  the  mute  interroga- 
tive, and  he  felt,  without  knowing  why,  that  she  had  had  a 
thought  of  which  he  was  the  subject.  This  did  not  displease 
him;  young  gentlemen  are  not  offended  at  finding  themselves 
the  subject  of  a  fair  lady's  musings. 

Although  Viola  hesitated  to  confide  her  thoughts  to  the 
subject  of  them,  we  have  not  a  similar  delicacy  with  regard  to 
our  confidential  friend,  the  reader.  She  had  thought  that  the 
energetic  enthusiasm  of  Howard  fitted  him  to  be  the  chronicler 
of  those  indomitable  struggles  for  the  right,  the  success  of 
which  was  unattended  by  the  usual  brilliant  accessories  of 
victory. 

"  And  was  that  all  ?"  says  the  reader  to  me,  as  Howai'l  said 
to  Viola. 

"  No,  that  was  not  all,"  say  I  to  the  reader  ingenuously, 
as  Viola  answered  her  interrogator. 

And  then  the  reader  looks  curious,  wishing  to  know  the 
rest,  but  I  am  discreetly  silent.  For  I  will  not  betray  that  at 
this  point  my  sweet  lady  felt  excessively  hungry. 

Helen,  who  is  a  sympathetic  friend,  must  have  guessed  this, 
for  she  suggested  that  the  dinner  hour  was  at  hand,  and  they 
had  better  drive  home. 

And  merrily  home  drove  they,  filling  the  air  with  laughter, 
and  trampling  the  sunshine  in  the  dust  where  it  lay.  When 
Nature  is  so  bounteous,  her  children  will  be  prodigal. 

At  dinner,  a  programme  of  enjoyments  for  successive  days 
was  arranged  by  these  young  votaries  of  pleasure.  We  of 


THE    NONSENSE    OF    YOUTH.  167 

the  work-a-day  world  cannot  follow  them,  but  they  are  none 
the  less  happy. 

It  so  happened  in  this  intimacy  between  the  two  families, 
that  Walsinghain  and  Mrs.  Irving  were  frequently  drawn 
together,  and  thrown  as  it  were  upon  each  other  for  compan- 
ionship by  these  thoughtless  and  selfish  young  people.  It  may 
be  this  was  pleasant  enough,  as  it  has  been  seen  they  were  two 
very  attractive  persons.  About  this  time  there  was  a  great 
change  in  George  Irving.  He  was  moody,  stern,  and  silent, 
and  seemed  moping  over  some  dismal  secret. 

Probably  stocks  were  falling. 


108  EROS    AND    ANTEUOS. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

HINTS   AT   HOW  THE   YOUNG   GENTLEMEN   ENJOYED   THEIR 
VACATION. 

HELEN  and  her  mamma  sat  sewing  one  morning,  when 
Cola,  in  hunting  garb,  presented  himself  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Mrs.  Irving,  "  and  tell  us  where  you  have 
been.  Not  shooting,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  have  returned,  like  a  faithful  knight,  to  lay  my 
trophies  at  the  feet  of  beauty,"  and  he  glanced  at  Helen  with 
an  air  of  gallantry. 

"That  means  mamma,"  she  said,  demurely;  "she  is  the 
beauty  of  the  family  !" 

A  becoming  blush  mantled  mamma's  usually  pale  face,  and 
her  eyes  beamed  kindly  on  her  daughter. 

She  certainly  was  a  lovely  matron,  the  young  man  thought, 
although  he  had  not  observed  it  before. 

"  I  do  homage  !"  he  said,  kissing  her  hand,  "  and  wish  she 
was  my  mother." 


THE   YOTTNG   GENTLEMEN'S  VACATION.          169 

I  do  not  understand  why  Helen  grew  so  red  at  this.  Pro- 
bably she  thought  his  civility  to  mamma  impertinent. 

Mamma's  sense  of  propriety  did  not  appear  to  be  outraged. 
She  not  only  suffered  him  to  kiss  her  hand,  but  laid  it  gently 
on  his  clustering  locks,  while  she  favoured  him  with  a  mater- 
nal regard. 

"  Poor  boy !"  she  said,  "  you  have  no  mother." 

"  No !  How  did  you  know  that  ?" 

"  Because,  I  observe  you  have  not  the  habits  which  femi- 
nine care  inculcates." 

He  grew  very  red,  now,  and  laughed. 

"  Pray,  give  me  an  instance." 

"  Well,  then,  if  your  childhood  had  been  beguiled  by  the 
nursery  rhymes  and  nursery  ethics  which  mothers  have  always 
on  their  tongues,  you  would  not  have  been  gunning  in  the 
season  when  every  bird  that  falls  leaves  a  family  of  little  ones 
to  starve  in  the  nest." 

"  The  instance  does  not  sustain  the  argument,"  replied  the 
saucy  culprit  j  "  Howard  went  gunning,  too." 

Mrs.  Irving  bit  her  lips. 

"  He  was  the  instigator,"  continued  the  young  man. 

"  Did  he  ask  you  to  go  ?" 

Cola  laughed.  "  He  did  not  invite  me  j  I  was  a  volunteer. 
He  slung  his  shot-pouch  over  his  shoulder,  and  walked  forth 
toward  the  Bluff.  Not  knowing  anything  better  to  do,  I  took 
rny  accoutrements,  and  followed  him. 

"  He  has  not  been  very  good  company,  of  late,  madam, 
your  son  has  not.  This  morning  he  seemed  particularly  dull. 
15 


170  EROS    AND    ANTERO8. 

I  gave  ray  mind  to  being  agreeable  and  entertaining,  but  he 
did  not  appear  to  value  my  society  as  it  deserved.  He  seemed 
studying  the  inscription  on  his  fowling-piece.  When  we  were 
half-way  up  the  hill,  I  was  rewarded  by  a  friendly  remark." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?" 

"  '  Cola,  you  dog,  you  had  better  go  home,  or  I'll  shoot  you.'  " 

The  ladies  laughed  heartily. 

"  I  was  afraid  he  would,  madam,  and  took  his  advice." 

"I  think,"  he  continued,  with  comic  gravity,  "that  my 
friend  expected  to  find  his  game  in  j;he  eagle's  nest,  on  the 
Bluff." 

I  cannot  tell  why  Helen  did  not  consider  herself  a  beauty. 
She  certainly  looked  very  pretty  as  she  sat  at  her  mother's 
feet,  blushing  and  laughing,  and  in  many  pretty  maidenly 
ways  demonstrating  her  enjoyment  of  this  young  man's  non- 
sense. A  bracelet,  which  her  mother  wore,  contained  her 
miniature,  and  Cola  thought  the  artist  had  not  done  her  jus- 
tice. If  Nature  does  not  always  give  to  her  young  daughters 
the  form  and  tint  of  beauty,  she  dowers  each  from  an  exhaust- 
less  treasury  of  nameless  graces,  which  are  not  within  the 
compass  of  "  art's  simulation." 

As  I  have  hinted,  Cola  thought  that  Helen  and  her  mamma 
formed  a  very  pretty  tableau,  and  he  made  her  sundry  fine 
speeches  to  that  effect,  when  an  opportunity  presented,  seem- 
ing to  be  quite  as  much  in  earnest  as  usual. 

Helen's  greatest  attraction  was  her  musical  talent.  In  this 
she  was  greatly  superior  to  Viola,  who  was  merely  accomplished 
in  music.  Viola  was  mistress  of  the  instrument,  but  Helen 


THE  YOUNG  GENTLEMEN'S  VACATION.          171 

seemed  to  play  upon  heart-chords,  bearing  her  listener  on  a 
tide  of  melody  through  lofty,  impassioned,  changing  emotions, 
as  in  a  delicious  dream.  This  is  a  talent  rarely  possessed  by 
any  save  an  artist.  I  knew  but  one  (Heaven  bless  her !)  who 
carried  humbly  in  her  womanly  heart  this  wondrous  gift,  con- 
tent to  exercise  it  in  the  retirement  of  domestic  life  for  her 
own  delight,  and  the  enjoyment  of  those  she  loved. 

Cola  Conway  was  peculiarly  susceptible  to  the  influence  of 
music,  and  surrendered  himself  to  its  enthralment  with  entire 
abandon.  When  Helen,  of  a  summer's  night,  would  impro- 
vise such  tender  or  melancholy  strains  as  harmonized  with  the 
hour,  his  heart  would  quiver  to  the  notes  as  did  the  atmo- 
sphere, and  tears  flow  over  his  boyish  face.  Nearer  and  nearer 
he  would  draw,  like  one  enchanted,  and  crouch  on  a  stool  at 
her  side,  the  abject  slave  of  those  sweet  sounds — or  their 
creator. 

This  young  gentleman  seemed  in  a  beautiful  state  of  bewil- 
derment between  his  two  charming  friends;  and,  judging 
from  his  conduct,  might  be  in  love  with  either.  With  Viola, 
he  was  most  easy,  fluent,  and  free.  Howard  observed,  with 
some  resentment,  that  his  friend  enjoyed  an  intimacy  with 
her,  such  as  he  who  had  known  her  from  childhood  had  failed 
to  establish.  They  frequently  conversed  apart  in  low  tones, 
which  ceased  on  the  approach  of  third  persons.  More  than 
once  he  had  observed  glances  of  intelligence  and  affection, 
he  thought,  interchanged.  The  brilliant  gayety  which  he  had 
admired  so  much  in  Conway,  seemed  levity  now ;  and  he  felt 


172  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

some  uneasiness  about  having  introduced  his  handsome  and 
thoughtless  friend  to  his  home. 

Have  we  not  somewhere  hinted  that  our  young  friend  was 
irascible  ?  Of  course,  this  was  highly  indecorous  and  discre- 
ditable; the  more  so  as  it  is  such  an  unusual  infirmity  of 
youth.  We  feel  mortified,  and  in  a  manner  compromised  by 
his  weakness;  but  nevertheless  confess  it,  with  a  candour 
which  must  appear  magnanimous. 

Nay,  with  the  most  entire  frankness,  we  deprecate  the  indis- 
criminate applause  of  his  friends,  our  readers,  and  beg  then 
indulgence  for  the  improper  spirit  in  which  our  young  gentle- 
man met  the  irreverent  badinage  of  Conway.  Instead  of 
receiving  graciously,  or  relishing  the  delicate  illusions  of  his 
guest,  he  would  knit  his  brows  and  frown  like  the  immortal 
Thunderer,  occasionally  launching  some  such  bolt  as  this  : — 

"  Excuse  the  suggestion,  that  your  remarks  are  in  bad 
taste."  Or, 

"  Sir,  oblige  me  by  refraining  from  innuendoes  concerning 
my — hem — my  mother's  guests  !" 

Or  under  high  pressure  : — 

"  Look  you,  Conway !  you  have  guessed  my  secret ;  and 
now  beware  how  you  cross  my  path  !" 

To  which  Conway,  looking  terrified  and  helpless : — 

"  But  if  a  lady  should  set  her  heart  on  me  ?  What  would 
you  have  a  fellow  do  ?" 

"  Don't  play  the  fool,  sir !'  responds  Howard,  looking  as 
if  he  would  like  to  rend  his  dear  friend  to  shreds  and  give 
him  to  the  winds. 


THE   YOUNG   GENTLEMEN'S   VACATION.         173 

"  I  won't,"  promises  his  dear  friend,  good-naturedly.  "I 
never  do.  I  wish  my  adviser  was  equally  careful  to  avoid 
acting  the  ruffian.!" 

"  Forgive  me,  Cola,  my  dear  fellow !  Bear  with  me !  I 
deserve  your  reproof.  My  heart  is  full  of  the  wildest  love  for 
her.  I  cannot  endure  that  you  should  come  between  us,  as  I 
sometimes  fancy  you  do.  Nay,  I  am  jealous  of  Helen — of 
all  the  world.  I  have  felt  so  from  a  boy;  for  I  always  loved 
her.  When  playmates  intruded  upon  our  sports,  I  would  put 
my  arm  about  her,  and  draw  her  away,  saying,  '  Oh,  Viola ! 
I  wish  there  was  no  one  in  the  whole  world  but  you  and  I !' 
"Would  to  heaven  I  dared  do  so  now !" 


15 


174  EROS    AND    ANT.EROS. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

• 

IN  WHICH  THE  YOUNG  PEOPLE  BECOME  BETTER  ACQUAINTED 

"  The  sun  in  its  gorgeousness,  radiant  and  still, 
Dropped  down  like  a  gem,  from  the  brow  of  the  hill ; 
One  tremulous  star  in  the  glory  of  June, 
Came  out  with  a  smile,  and  sat  down  by  the  moon ; 
And  the  earth,  in  her  beauty  forgetting  to  grieve, 
Lay  asleep  in  her  bloom  on  the  bosom  of  evo." 

MRS.  WELBY. 

Now,  were  the  moonlit  nights  of  June ! — the  carnival  of 
roses !  Nature  was  in  festive  mood,  and  the  earth  was  crowned 
and  garlanded.  Maidens  wore  roses  in  their  hair,  or  on  their 
bosoms.  Matrons  hung  them  wantonly  to  their  girdles. 
Young  men  tricked  them  to  their  button-holes — and  old  men 
held  them  between  their  teeth ;  and  all  the  world,  by  mute 
acts  like  these,  testified  its  appreciation  of  the  floral  holiday. 
When  the  sun  went  down  a  great  lamp  was  hung  in  the 
heavens  to  illumine  a  ttorld  too  beautiful  for  the  shroud  of 


BETTER,    ACQUAINTANCE.  175 

* 

darkness;  and  thus  lighted  and  attended,  she  careered  on  her 
appointed  path  through  space,  rejoicing. 

Viola  and  her  friends  were  abroad,  enjoying  all  that  the 
overflowing  censers  of  earth,  air,  and  heaven,  presented  for 
the  delight  of  youth. 

Mrs.  Irving  leaned  from  her  bay  window  to  enjoy  the 
beauty  of  the  night — a  night  so  bright  and  soft  that  it  seemed 
a  summer  day  veiled  for  masquerade.  The  mountains  loomed 
up  in  solemn  grandeur,  while  the  river  rolled  between,  with 
the  shattered  moonbeams  sparkling  on  its  bosom,  and  its  mur- 
muring lullaby  sounding  ceaselessly  in  nature's  ear.  The 
shrubbery  in  the  garden  waved  to  the  evening  wind,  and  filled 
the  paths  with  nodding  shadows ;  while,  high  in  heaven,  like 
an  imperial  presence,  the  peerless  moon  sailed  majestically 
athwart  the  night. 

How  puerile,  how  pitiful  seemed  the  cares  of  daily  life  in 
the  face  of  that  calm  majesty !  The  anxieties  which  had 
oppressed  the  lady's  heart  were  hushed,  and  peace,  fit  off- 
spring of  that  shining  presence,  possessed  her  soul. 

She  thought  of  Mary — the  dear  treasure  she  had  laid  up  in 
heaven — and  wondered  in  what  realm  of  light  was  that  pure 
spirit's  appointed  home.  If  she  was  not  permitted  to  droop 
from  moonlit  space  and,  with  unseen  presence,  sow  the  seeds 
of  peace  in  the  sorrowing  hearts  that  loved  her. 

She  thought  of  her  husband,  whom  she  knew  so  well, 
admired  so  much,  and  loved  so  tenderly. 

Among  men  he  seemed  a  stern,  straight-forward,  resolute 
man,  armed  with  a  practisal  earnestness  that  enabled  him  to 


176  EROS    AND    ANTERO8. 

subdue  difficulties  and  control  circumstances.  She  knew  that 
warmth  and  depth,  as  well  as  strength,  characterized  his 
nature.  A  passionate  enthusiasm  burned  within  his  bosom, 
like  a  volcanic  fire  j  and  as  the  secret  glow  within  the  moun- 
tain is  evidenced  by  luxuriant  'growth  and  richest  verdure,  so 
had  the  hidden  warmth  of  this  man's  nature  beautified  life 
around  him. 

She  had  luxuriated  in  it,  for  it  was  rich  in  love  for  her;  her 
children  had  lived  joying  in  its  subtle  influence,  and  all  the 
blossoming  hopes  of  her  girlhood  had  found  their  full  fruition 
in  its  vivifying  glow. 

But  lately  there  had  been  a  change  in  him,  for  which  the 
cares  of  business  failed  to  account. 

Although  not  fond  of  society,  he  had  always  taken  a  kindly 
interest,  nay  pleasure,  in  the  social  enjoyments  of  home.  Now 
he  seemed  to  avoid  the  domestic  circle,  and,  even  in  the  pre- 
sence of  his  wife,  was  silent  and  constrained. 

What  this  could  portend,  her  acute  instincts,  sharpened  by 
wifely  affection,  had  failed  to  divine.  She  had  not  questioned 
her  son  or  daughter,  fearing  to  attract  attention  to  a  change 
which  she  did  not  understand  herself;  but  Howard  had 
observed  it,  and  remarked  to  her  that  his  father's  habits  of 
seclusion  seemed  to  have  increased  since  he  was  last  at  home. 

As  she  thought  of  these  things  a  dark  figure  moved  among 
the  shadows  of  the  moonlit  garden,  and,  recognising  her  hus- 
band, she  flew  down  the  stairs,  and  along  the  gravelled  paths, 
to  his  side. 

"I  did  not  know  you  had  come,"  she  said,  kindly,  placing 


BETTER    ACQUAINTANCE.  177 

her  small  hand  in  his.  "You  do  not  seek  me  through  the 
house  as  you  used  to  do  I" 

"  I  thought  you  were  out  with  the  young  people/'  he 
answered,  abstractedly,  submitting  to  her  caress. 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you,  and  thinking  of  you,  and  of  Mary. 
The  moonlight  always  brings  her  image  before  me." 

The  sweet  influence  of  the  child  seemed  to  come  between 
them  in  mediation;  for  the  manly  nature  of  the  father  softened 
as  he  listened.  Placing  an  arm  about  his  little  wife,  and 
imprinting  a  kiss  upon  her  fair  upturned  brow,  he  drew  her 
down  the  walk. 

She  felt,  from  these  indications,  that  whatever  grief  01  per- 
plexity oppressed  his  heart,  his  love  for  her  was  unchanged ; 
but  why  did  he  not  take  her  to  his  bosom's  confidence,  as  he 
had  done  heretofore  ?  She  had  shared  the  burdens  of  nearly 
twenty  years,  none  of  which  had  seemed  so  heavy  as  this  ono 
weight  of  withheld  confidence.  Encouraged  by  his  kiss,  she 
was  abcut  to  importune  him,  as  did  Portia  her  lord,  when  the 
ringing,  laugh  of  Helen  and  Viola,  mingled  with  the  deep 
tones  of  Howard's  voice,  announced  that  the  young  friends 
were  at  hand. 

Up  the  gravel  walk  they  came,  bearing  lightly  in  their 
bosoms,  hearts  of  youth.  Hearts  of  youth !  unchecked,  un- 
chilled,  unshrinking !  As  they  walked,  the  very  night  that 
had  seemed  so  calm  and  sad,  grew  joyous  around  them.  The 
moonbeams  danced  amid  the  roses,  and  the  aspen  leaves 
quivered  on  the  breeze  with  bird-like  ecstasy,  as  though  they 
would  mount  towards  heaven  and  sing !  How  changed  in 


178  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

the  presence  of  youth  and  gladness  seemed  the  aspect  of  the 
night ! 

"You  walk  too  rapidly,  Howard,"  cried  Helen  to  her 
brother.  "  Cola  and  I  can  hardly  keep  pace  with  you,  and 
Viola  pants  with  fatigue." 

"Is  it  possible  that  I  have  been  so  thoughtless!"  he 
exclaimed,  turning  to  the  fair  girl  leaning  on  his  arm.  "When 
I  am  excited  I  always  walk  rapidly." 

"  Excited  !     What  has  excited  you  so  much  ?" 

"Pleasure!" 

Conway  was  the  querist,  but  the  deep,  low  answer  was 
poured  into  Viola's  ear,  conveying  a  world  of  meaning. 

Withdrawing  her  hand  from  his  arm,  she  stooped  to  gather 
the  roses  in  her  path,  and  the  face  which  had  shone  so  white 
and  fair,  wore  their  hues  as  she  pressed  them  to  her  lips. 

"Pleasure,  such  as  I  never  knew  till  now,"  said  the  young 
man.  "  Pleasure  which  I  will  soon  lose.  Viola,  the  vaca- 
tions are  very  short !" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  placed  the  flowers  in  ,her  bosom, 
and  stood  with  her  dreamy  eyes  upturned,  her  gauzy  gar- 
•ments  swaying,  cloud-like,  to  the  breeze,  and  her  golden  ring- 
lets glistening  in  the  moonlight — a  soft,  angelic,  half-lighted 
picture,  which  memory  oft  recalled  in  after  years. 

Meanwhile  Cola  and  Helen  wandered  unobserved  through 
the  garden  paths.  His  laughing  face  wore  a  more  earnest 
expression,  and  his  manner,  usually  light  and  free,  grew 
serious  and  subdued.  Helen  listened  to  his  words  with  au 


BETTER    ACQUAINTANCE.  179 

expression  of  enjoyment  on  her  young  face,  as  though  music 
filled  the  air. 

Ah,  his  were  fluent  lips!  Had  they  charmed  her  heart 
away? 

Have  a  care,  young  Helen !  Sweet,  guileless,  tender  girl. 
Beware,  how  the  passing  homage  of  a  versatile  and  inconstant 
nature  is  repaid  by  that  treasure  of  youth,  which  true  and 
earnest  hearts  can  but  once  bestow. 

Garden  of  roses !  rolling  green  waves  of  foliage  before  the 
wind,  and  pouring  richest  incense  to  the  moon !  Youth,  and 
hope,  and  love,  dwell  in  thy  bowers  to-night.  Fleeting  and 
perishable  guests,  succeeded,  perchance,  by  age,  disappoint- 
ment, and  bitterness ;  while  your  insensate  beauty  will  bloom 
on,  and  year  after  year  smile  in  the  face  of  heaven  with  primal 
freshness ! 


180  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

IN  WHICH  THE  READER  BECOMES  BETTER  ACQUAINTED  WITH 
WALSINGHAM. 

"Love  took  up  the  harp  of  life,  and  turned  it  in  his  glowing  hands, 
Every  moment  lightly  shaken  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 
Love  took  up  the  harp  of  life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with 

might- 
Smote  the  chord  of  self,  that,  trembling,  passed  in  music  out  of  sight." 

TENNYSON. 

"  I  MUST,  I  must,  I  must !"  said  Viola,  placing  her  fingers 
on  her  ears  to  shut  out  the  solicitations  of  her  friends. 

"  I  must  return  to  the  Eyrie." 

"  I  must,  he  must,  you  must,  go  to  the  Eyrie  likewise," 
said  Cola  to  Helen,  "  for  neither  he  nor  you  will  be  able  to  live 
without  her;  and  I — " 

"And  you  will  not  be  able  to  live  without  her  either!" 
laughed  Helen,  in  reply. 

"  Not  exactly  that,  but  I — what  should  I  do  if  you  followed 
her?" 


WALSINQIIAM.  181 

Howard,  who  had  continued  to  urge  Viola's  stay  in  vain, 
now  rang  for  the  carriage. 

"  The  large  carriage — the  family  carriage,"  added  Conway, 
as  the  servant  retired. 

"  Cola,  have  done  your  nonsense !"  said  Howard,  with  an 
impatience  which  was  lost  upon  that  young  gentleman, 
absorbed  as  he  was  in  the  meaning  melody  of, 

"  Let's  go  to  the  woods,  said  Richard  to  Robin — 
Let's  go  to  the  woods,  said  Robin  to  Bobbin — 
Let's  go  to  the  woods,  said  John  all  alone — 
Let's  go  to  the  woods,  said  every  one." 

The  music  was  so  inspiring,  that  both  ladies  joined  in  the 
refrain  with  such  merriment  that  "  Let's  go  to  the  woods,  said 
every  one,"  was  still  echoing  when  the  carriage  was  announced. 

Viola  had  been  spending  a  few  days  with  Helen,  during 
which  time  her  philosophical  guardian  had  made  a  discovery. 

I  have  said  but  little  of  Walsingham  of  late,  partly  because, 
in  common  with  the  young  ladies,  I  have  been  occupied  with 
the  collegians,  and  partly,  because  deterred  by  the  difficulty 
of  portraying  the  excellence  and  dignity  of  such  a  character 
as  his.  I  have  feared  lest,  on  the  one  hand,  I  should  not  do 
justice  to  his  rare  qualities ;  and,  on  the  other,  that  their 
faithful  delineation  might  appear  like  the  exaggerated  endow- 
ments of  a  fictitious  hero. 

But  now  the  development  of  this  simple  story  requires  that 
I  should  dwell  upon  him,  even  at  the  risk  of  marring  the 
harmony  of  his  fine  character  by  unskilful  representation, 
16 


182  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

from  which  I  trust  the  reverence  and  admiration  1 1  ave  enter- 
tained for  the  man  may  preserve  me. 

Walsingham  has  made  a  discovery ! 

Be  not  impatient,  reader,  but  suffer  me  to  impart  it  to  you 
through  the  same  gradual  process  by  which  its  bitter  sweet 
was  revealed  to  himself. 

Since  his  return  to  the  Eyrie  he  had  been  a  very  happy  man. 
In  the  congenial  pursuits  to  which  he  systematically  devoted 
his  time  and  talents,  his  intellectual  nature,  heretofore  restless 
and  craving,  reposed  in  calm  content,  while  his  social  tastes 
found  a  novel  pleasure  in  the  constant  presence  and  daily 
companionship  of  his  cultivated  ward.  Her  tastes  assimilated 
with  his  own;  his  favourite  themes  became  hers,  partly 
through  her  natural  love  of  study,  partly  because  of  her  regard 
for  him.  Whatever  interested  Walsingham  acquired  a  dignity 
and  importance  in  her  eyes,  above  and  beyond  its  own,  and 
she  hasted  to  master  its  mysteries  not  only  for  the  sake  of  the 
attractive  knowledge,  but  that  she  might  better  understand 
him.  Insensibly,  when  he  came  into  her  presence,  he  would 
speak  of  those  subjects  which  had  absorbed  his  attention 
during  the  day ;  and  the  language  of  the  library  and  laboratory 
became  the  chit-chat  of  the  tea-table.  Viola  possessed  that 
womanly  appreciative  mind,  so  charming  to  men  of  intellect, 
capable  of  grasping,  comprehending,  and  admiring,  that  which 
their  stronger  powers  create.  Her  playful  fancy  and  delicate 
wit  would  embellish  the  most  abstruse  themes,  with  a  unu-o 
and  lightness,  as  charming  as  novel  to  the  fascinated  scholar. 
His  mind  was  microscopic,  hers  prismatic. 


WALSINOIIAM.  183 

Viewed  through  the  one  medium  the  truths  of  science  be- 
came enlarged,  distinct,  and  clear;  through  the  other,  embel- 
lished, adorned,  and  beautified.  Thus  each  borrowed  from  the 
other  a  new  medium  of  vision. 

Her  resemblance  to  her  mother  occasionally  recalled  the 
past,  but  he  was  too  profoundly  happy  for  its  memory  to  pain 
him  now.  It  seemed  a  tender  half-forgotten  dream,  and  he 
lived  only  in  the  holy  calm  of  this  blessed  era,  feeling,  believ- 
ing, that  thus  their  lives  would  flow  pleasantly  to  the  end. 

But  when  these  collegians  came  fluttering  around  her  daily 
paths ;  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  her  beauty ;  engrossing  her 
attention  and  time;  bearing  her  now  here,  now  there,  in  the 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  while  he  remained  in  solitude  at  home ; 
he  pushed  aside  his  books,  and  reflected  seriously  of  her — 
himself — the  future !  She  was  younq;  and  beautiful.  She 
would  be  wooed,  probably  won,  by  some  one  of  these  flutterers, 
and  borne  from  the  home  she  graced  for  ever.  She,  his 
own  !  His  own  no  longer,  but  another's  ! 

His  pale  face  flushed  indignantly  with  the  thought  of  this 
wrong  to  him,  for  such  it  seemed.  Had  he  not  reared  her 
almost  from  infancy,  until  she  had  grown  into  his  heart  and 
life,  and  now,  when  the  care  was  past,  the  task  performed,  the 
flower  unfolded,  should  another  gather  its  bloom  and  rejoice  in 
its  perfume  ? 

Ay !  even  thus  fathers  lose  the  daughters  most  dear  to 
their  hearts. 

Ay,  again  !  but  he  was  not  her  father. 


184  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

Thus  it  was  that  Walsingham  made  a  discovery,  and  ere  this 
you,  dear  reader,  have  made  it  too. 

Neither  philosophical  or  scientific,  but  natural  withal,  was 
this  new  revelation.  He  loved  !  He  loved  his  ward.  Lumi- 
nous as  a  new-found  planet,  when  brightening  through  dark- 
ness, on  the  vision  of  the  rapt  discoverer,  was  this  new  star  set 
in  his  heaven.  It  beamed  on  his  solitude,  heralding  to  his 
manhood  the  happiness  denied  his  youth. 

He  loved  !  he  who  had  loved  but  once,  and  loved  so  long — s« 
faithfully — so  hopelessly.  From  out  the  very  ashes  of  tha, 
rare  passion  sprang  forth  the  new  love  phosnix-like.  It 
spread  its  white  wings  around  him,  filling  his  heart  with  a 
rapture  of  wild  surprise. 

He  felt  that  he  had  quaffed  at  some  immortal  fountain  and 
renewed  his  youth.  Life,  glorious,  blessed  life— its  hopes — 
its  promises — were  before  him  once  more, 

"  With  crowns  of  the  sunshine  and  garlands  of  bloom." 

His  heart  was  reclaimed  from  barrenness  ! — his  home  redeemed 
from  desolation  ! — he  loved  ! — he  lived  again  ! 

But  in  this  delirium  of  delight  a  baleful  thought  arose. 
Viola  was  very  young.  He — alas !  was  he  not  old  f  He  had 
not  felt  so.  He  had  not  thought  so,  save  in  contrast  with  her. 
Then  he  composed  his  mind  to  a  self-analysis,  by  which  he 
might  discover  of  what  time  had  robbed  him,  and  wherein  the 
man  differed  from  the  youth.  The  result  was  satisfactory. 
He  found  his  experiences  were  more  enlarged,  his  judgment 
mellowed,  and  his  mind  matured.  His  enthusiasm  had 


WALSINQIIAM.  185 

deepened  with  deepening  thought.  His  ardour  glowed  with 
maturer,  manlier  fire.  In  all  things  he  felt  himself  to  be  wiser 
and  worthier  in  his  majestic  manhood  than  in  his  undeveloped 
youth.  Time  had  robbed  him  of  nought — had  bestowed  much. 
In  the  fulness  of  his  strengthened  nature  he  felt  himself  supe- 
rior to  the  freshness  of  untried  life. 

"  The  mind  is  deathless,"  thought  he.  "  Is  it  not  also 
ageless  ?  Is  not  its  immortality  an  immortality  of  youth  f  It 
is  in  the  frailer  shell  which  the  mind  for  a  brief  period  inhabits, 
frets,  rends,  and  abandons,  that  we  should  seek  those  symp- 
toms of  decay  which  men  call  age ;"  and  he  turned  abruptly  to 
the  mirror.  It  reflected  to  his  inquiring  eyes  the  glory  of  man- 
hood at  its  height  of  perfection.  His  fine  figure,  his  superb 
head,  and  intellectual  face,  were  not  such  as  ladies  regard  with 
indifference.  His  keenly  critical  gaze  slowly  changed  to  a 
triumphant  one,  and,  throwing  himself  upon  the  sofa,  he  in- 
dulged anew  in  delicious  hopes  and  golden  visions. 

The  veriest  trifles  are  often  pivots  upon  which  our  lives 
turn.  Had  Viola  returned  then,  he  would  have  bared  to  her 
his  full  heart,  bursting  with  its  new  found  passionate  love,  and 
perchance  have  won  her  with  the  enraptured  eloquence  so  dear 
to  woman.  But  she  was  wandering  in  the  moonlit  garden, 
and  a  manly  voice  was  pouring  in  her  ear  such  words  as  gave 
her  glimpses  of  another  love  as  wild — perchance  as  true  as  his 
own. 

Meanwhile  the  pertinacious  self-examiner  lay  on  his  study- 
sofa  pursuing  the  new  theme. 

"  It  will  not  be  always  thus,"  he  said.  "  Will  not  the  time  come 
16* 


186  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

when  age  and  discrepitude  shall  steal  upon  this  strong  frame, 
and  it  shall  stand  bowed  and  broken,  beside  her  glorious  woman- 
hood, presenting  the  unnatural  union  of  youth  with  age — 
scarcely  less  loathsome  than  the  tie  that  bound  the  living  to 
the  dead  ?"  The  thought  was  agony,,  and  hot  dews  started  to 
his  brow  as  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  ejaculating, — "  As  I  am  a 
true  man  I  will  spare  her  this  !" 

Hitherto,  he  had  thought  only  of  the  possibility  of  winning 
her  virgin  heart.  Now,  he  felt  there  would  be  an  impropriety 
in  attempting  it.  Was  he  not  her  guardian  ?  Had  he  not 
always  appeared  to  her  armed  with  parental  authority  ?  It  is 
true  he  had  not  used  this  authority  j  but  by  virtue  of  his  posi- 
tion she  had  always  accorded  to  him  a  daughter's  obedience 
and  devotion.  His  lightest  wish  had  been  the  law  of  her 
life,  and  was  there  not  great  danger,  if  he  approached  her  as 
a  lover,  that  she  should  yield  to  his  suit  from  habitual  obe- 
dience, or  from  gratitude,  while  all  her  young  instincts 
prompted  a  different  choice?  Should  he,  of  all  men  most 
bound  to  protect  her  from  peril,  lead  her  into  this  loveless — 
joyless  doom? 

But  if,  growing  strong  in  such  an  emergency,  she  should, 
with  self-reliant  firmness,  reject  his  suit,  what  then  ?  The 
home  of  a  rejected  lover  could  not  be  the  home  of  a  spirited 
and  delicately  conscious  woman ;  the  dear  relationship  between 
them  would  be  rudely  severed,  and  whither  could  the  poor 
friendless  one  turn,  if  she  should  seek  to  fly  from  him  ?  Ah, 
why  will  fate  tempt  men  thus  ! 

The  night  passed  in  bitter  mental  conflict;  but  the  morning 


WALSINOIIAM.  187 

dawned  upoz.  a  serene  and  resolute  man.  Over  his  'strong 
passion,  his  stronger  mind  had  obtained  the  victory.  As 
honour  and  generosity  dictated,  he  was  resolved  to  guard  the 
beloved  one  as  faithfully,  more  tenderly  than  ever;  to  avoid 
disturbing,  by  word  or  look,  the  innocent  unconsciousness 
with  which  she  reposed  in  the  shelter  of  his  home ;  to  pro- 
tect her  from  himself,  and  to  crucify  his  love  as  he  had  done 
before. 

When  Viola  returned,  escorted  by  her  friends,  his  pale 
countenance,  quiet  manner,  and  grave  welcome  betrayed 
nought  of  the  conflict  of  the  night.  They  touched  her,  how- 
ever, with  a  feeling  of  reproach  for  her  desertion ;  and  by 
various  winning,  womanly  devices,  she  strove  to  make  amends 
for  her  absence,  thereby  rendering  her  presence  more  danger- 
ously dear. 


188  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

SUNDRIES. 

VACATION  ended,  the  students  returned  to  their  "alma 
mater,"  like  rebellious  step-children,  bearing  with  them  re- 
membrances such  as  fed  fine  fancies,  while  study  stood  aside 
an-hungered,  like  the  stork  at  the  fox's  feast. 

However  much  the  friends  of  these  young  men,  and  society 
at  large,  may  have  regretted  the  loss  of  such  social  ornaments, 
Walsingham  was  unfcigncdly  gratified  by  their  absence.  He 
could  more  uninterruptedly  enjoy  that  sweet  companionship 
which  was  all  the  aliment  allowed  his  secret  passion.  The 
time  when  his  darling  should  be  borne  from  him  by  some 
younger,  happier  man,  her  heart's  elect,  seemed  more  distant. 
In  their  absence  he  felt  reprieved. 

Walsingham  did  not  associate  the  most  meagre  hope  with 
his  love.  He  indulged  in  nought  beyond  an  earnest  wish  that 
the  evil  day  destined  to  separate  him  from  his  beloved  might 
be  far  distant,  and  that  he  might  protect,  guard,  and  minister 
to  her  pleasures,  and  in  return  enjoy  the  sunshine  of  her 


SUNDRIES.  189 

olessed  presence  a  few  years  more.  The  feverish  dream  of 
his  youth  had  prostrated  his  energies.  This  love  of  his  ma- 
tured heart — this  calm,  patient,  and  unselfish  passion,  lifted 
up  his  manhood;  filled  him  with  aspirations  and  resolves; 
elevated  and  refined  his  character.  Dearer  grew  she  day  by 
day;  and  as  his  love  deepened,  so  strengthened  his  resolve. 
The  one,  was  the  test  and  touchstone  of  the  other.  The  dearer 
Viola,  the  dearer  Viola's  happiness.  That  happiness  it  was 
his  privilege  to  guard. 

He  was  resolved  not  to  disqualify  himself  for  the  fulfilment 
of  his  trust  by  a  betrayal  of  his  secret  passion ;  and  with  con- 
stant self-watchfulness  and  utter  self-abnegation  he  laid  his 
hand  upon  his  heart  and  curbed  its  wild  desires  with  a  strong 
will. 

Alas !  that  woman  should  inspire  such  love  as  this,  and 
be  unmindful  of  it!  Why  do  not  the  invisible,  all-seeing 
angels,  pause  on  their  errands  of  mercy  to  whisper  to  her  that 
the  sands  of  life  beneath  her  dancing  feet  are  golden  ! 

In  the  mind  of  the  matured  man  love  did  not  extinguish 
ambition.  From  the  suppression  of  one  passion,  Walsingham 
sought  solace  in  the  gratification  of  another.  His  study  in 
the  lonely  turret  witnessed  many  laborious  vigils;  and  the 
work  which  was  to  give  honour  to  his  name,  and  his  name  to 
the  world,  progressed. 

Great  works  are  often  achieved  by  the  miserable  while  the 
happy  lie  supine,  for  anguish  is  a  mental  goad.  The  mind 
is  most  active  when  ill  at  ease :  as  steel  is  tempered  by  fire,  so 


190  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

are  the  faculties  of  man  sharpened  by  trial.  Thus  it  hap- 
pened that  the  very  contest  with  self  which  Walsiugham 
feared  would  distract  his  mind,  strengthened  it  for  the  effort 
of  labour :  his  work  was  better  performed,  and  mankind  ulti- 
mately benefited  by  his  secret  pangs. 

While  Walsingham,  ever  near,  was  thus  watchful  to  conceal 
his  feelings,  Viola's  distant  lover  chafed  for  the  time  when  he 
might  bare  his  heart  to  her.  Of  the  result  of  this  disclosure 
he  did  not  doubt.  Such  love  as  his  could  not  be  vain.  Could 
he,  he  thought,  for  a  few  golden  moments,  speak  his  passion, 
as  eloquently  as  'it  thrilled  him,  her  womanly  sympathies  must 
respond.  Such  language  must  kindle  in  her  heart  a  kindred 
feeling. 

But  he  had  left  her  with  those  potent  words  unspoken — 
with  her  virgin  heart  untouched.  Young,  beautiful,  gifted 
as  she  was,  might  not  another  in  his  absence  bespeak  its 
sympathies  and  waken  it  to  love  ? 

The  thought  of  rivals  exasperated  him.  She  was  exclu- 
sively his  own.  Had  he  not  singled  her  out  among  women, 
and  sealed  her  his,  with  worship  ?  Dare  others  approach  and 
breathe  upon  the  shrine  whereon  his  heart  was  laid  ? 

He  felt  himself  injured  when  he  heard  of  her  womanly 
triumphs;  for,  as  he  had  pictured,  Viola  was  courted  and 
admired.  It  appeared  to  him  that  the  block  or  cord  were  the 
appropriate  rewards  of  those  who  lifted  their  eyes  to  hia 
divinity.  He  heartily  wished  she  was  safe  in  some  desert 
island,  under  the  guardianship  of  fiery  dragons,  like  an  en- 
chanted princess.  Then  would  he  come,  and  with  his  love 


SUNDRIES.  191 

and  valour,  subdue  the  monsters,  break  the  spells,  at.d  win  the 
reward.  Or,  consigned  to  the  keeping  of  some  convent,  saying 
aves  and  dropping  beads,  far  from  the  presuming  admiration 
of  men,  until  his  love  should  overcome  obstacles  such  as  had 
deterred  those  who  were  faint  of  heart,  and  he  should  bear  his 
jewel  from  the  convent  shadows,  and  hold  it  up  in  the  sun- 
light, dazzling  the  world  with  its  beauty. 

Oh,  heart  of  youth  ! 

Of  the  emotions  of  Walsingham,  Viola  was  as  unconscious 
as  a  child ;  but  with  quick  womanly  insight,  she  perceived  all 
that  her  younger  lover  burned  to  reveal.  And  while  the  great 
archer  had  been  busy  in  their  midst,  had  he  no  shaft  for  her  ? 

Over  the  chaos  of  her  heart  a  Great  Spirit  moved.  That 
which  in  her  young  nature  had  been  without  form,  and  void, 
took  shape  beneath  its  brooding  wing,  and  a  new  creation,  a 
glad  existence,  sprang  up  within  her.  Love  had  birth  in  her 
virgin  heart. 

How  lovely  are  the  loving !  Viola's  cheek  flushed,  and  her 
eyes  beamed  with  softer,  tenderer,  holier  light.  Her  whole 
nature  seemed  to  glow  and  expand  with  the  new  life  within. 

Alas  for  Walsingham,  who  marked  the  glorious  change  in 
her,  as  he  noted  every  light  or  shade  upon  her  ever-varying 
face  !  He  did  not  know  the  cause.  He  did  not  divine  that 
love  was  beauty's  inspiration !  He  only  felt  that  she  grew 
more  dangerously  dear  with  every  passing  day ;  and  that  to 
abide  by  his  determination  with  this  lovely  temptress  by  his 
side,  required  a  resolution  strong  as  death. 

Meanwhile,  letters  from  the  Captain  were  received,  announc- 


192  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

ing  his  return  home.  "  Hang  me,  Arthur,"  quoth  he,  "  you 
are  foredoomed  to  play  Sinbad  to  this  Old  Man  of  the  Sea. 
Tell  the  little  birdeen  of  the  cro'  nest,  to  don  her  best  pin- 
afore, and  prettiest  monkey  tricks  for  the  delectation  of  her 
old  uncle.  Though,  bless  me !  she  must  have  outgrown  both, 
and  learned  girls'  tricks,  by  this  time ;  from  which,  Jupiter 
deliver  me,  bachelor  as  I  am !" 


ISOLATED.  193 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

ISOLATED. 

"  Out  of  doors  into  the  night ! 
On  to  the  maze 
Of  the  wild  wood  ways, 
Not  turning  to  left  or  right. 
Making  thro'  rain  and  wind 
O'er  the  broken  stubs, 
'Twixt  the  stems  and  stubs, 
With  a  strong  composed  mind." 

BROWNING. 

AND  so  the  summer,  all  glorious  in  that  land,  glided  from 
out  the  valley.  Wind  and  storm  challenged  the  mountains, 
and  howled  about  the  Eyrie  home.  Did  they  call  upon  Wal- 
singham,  that  he  would  arise  and  go  forth  as  at  the  bidding 
of  familiar  voices  ?  He  loved  the  storm.  It  harmonized  with 
the  tone  of  his  mind.  It  seemed  a  type  of  anguish,  of  Wrest- 
ling, and  of  triumph.  When  its  rage  was  the  highest,  he 
quaffed  at  its  broken  fountains  and  was  refreshed.  Ills 
striving  soul  was  awed  to  calm  by  the  contention  of  elements, 
17 


194  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

and  peace  followed  the  footsteps  of  the  storm  in  nature,  and 
in  the  bosom  of  nature's  votary. 

After  a  night  spent  in  such  communion,  the  morning  dawned 
moist  and  gray.  Viola  looked  from  her  window  upon  im- 
penetrable fog.  The  pines  that  had  moaned  so  piteously 
through  the  night  were  invisible.  Familiar  objects  were 
shrouded  in  dfeary  blank — and  throwing  up  the  casement,  she 
rested  her  cheek  on  her  hand  and  gazed  forth  dreamily. 

"  Good-morrow,"  cried  a  voice  beneath  the  window.  "  Where 
are  your  thoughts  wandering?" 

"  Lost  in  a  fog,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile  like  sunshine 
breaking  through  mist. 

"  Will  you  not  come  down  and  walk  ?"  said  Walsingham  j 
"  the  morning  is  soft  and  warm." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  lose  my  way,"  she  said,  as  a  moment 
after  she  came  forth. 

"  I  will  be  your  guide,"  he  answered,  taking  her  hand. 
"  Shall  we  go  toward  the  river  ?" 

"  Now  we  are  near  the  precipice,"  he  continued,  and  his 
grasp  insensibly  tightened.  "  This  is  the  cliff  that  hangs 
above  the  river — now  look  "abroad." 

She  peered  down  and  strained  her  eyes  to  catch  some  out- 
line of  the  familiar  landscape,  but  in  vain.  River  and  vale 
were  lost,  and  she  saw  nought  but  dense  vapours  rolling  in 
sulle%  billows  like  a  mysterious  seaj^rhile  up  from  the  impene- 
trable depth  arose  the  roar  of  waters. 

"  This  is  strange  and  grand  !"  she  said,  and  paused  to  listen. 

"  Does  it  not  remind  you  of  the  primal  chaos  ?"  inquired 


ISOLATED.  195 

Walsingham.  "Imagine  the  earth  once  uore  without  form, 
and  void !  Look  at  those  striving,  struggling,  writhing 
wreaths  of  mist,  and  think  of  the  Spirit  of  God  brooding 
upon  the  face  of  the  deep,  and  labouring  with  creation." 

She  was  for  a  moment  thoughtful,  and  then  exclaimed,  "  I 
cannot !  I  know  there  is  a  broad  and  beautiful  world  around 
us,  although  it  is  wrapped  from  vision  by  this  cold  veil." 

"  If  you  had  never  seen  it,  could  you  realize  this  ?" 

She  turned  her  large  eyes  on  him  seriously,  and  answered, 
"  Yes.  There  is  another  world,  beautiful,  illimitable,  and  in- 
visible. This  I  have  never  seen,  yet  I  believe." 

"The  veil  that  separates  us  therefrom  is  slight  as  that 
which  now  shrouds  the  material  world.  So  slight  that  a 
breath — the  parting  breath — dispels  it." 

Walsingham  looked  upon  her  rapt  face,  and  thought  of 
Raphael's  angels. 

"  How  strange,"  she  exclaimed,  looking  up,  "  that  I  can  see 
nothing  in  the  whole  wide  world  but  you  !" 

It  was  a  delicious  thought  to  him,  and  he  thanked  the  mist 
that  thus  enclosed  them  on  their  isolated  rock.  He  felt  that 
all  the  world  might  be  shrouded,  darkened,  lost  to  him,  so  that 
he  might  stand  thus,  above  the  chaos,  with  his  beloved  by  his 
side,  shedding  around  his  life  the  brightness  of  her  presence, 
which  was  dearer  than  sunlight.  . 

The  wild  emotion  in  his  heart  struggled  for  utterance.  His 
temptation  beset  him  sorely,  but  she  looked  so  fair,  so  child- 
like, so  trusting,  that  he  re-resolved  to  lay  a  restraining  hand 
upon  his  passion.  "  I  will,"  thought  he,  "  be  faithful  to  my 


196  ERO&    AND    4NTEROS. 

trust,  and  protect  her  from  all  peril — protect  her  from  myself." 
And  feeling  there  was  peril  in  his  presence,  walked  abruptly 
away. 

She  looked  wonderingly  after  his  retreating  figure,  and  feared 
she  had  offended. 

He  paused  under  the  pines  to  look  at  her.  She  stood  where 
he  had  left  her,  her  face  and  figure  indistinctly  seen  through 
the  heavy  atmosphere,  but  he  felt  that  her  eyes  looked  sadly 
on  him.  A  soft  south  wind  fluttered  her  garments,  and  drove 
the  twining  mist-wreaths  about  her  till  she  seemed  blended 
with  them  as  something  shadowy  and  unreal.  Her  sunny 
hair  floated  around  her  face  in  golden  glory,  and  she  appeared 
like  some  beautiful  beatified  spirit,  half-revealed  through  the 
intangible  veil  of  that  spiritual  world  of  which  she  had  spoken. 
Again  the  divine  creations  of  his  favourite  Master  were  remem- 
bered. Haloed  seraphs  gazing  tenderly  through  cleft  heavens 
— and  she  seemed,  no  more  the  warm,  loving,  living  woman 
who  had  awakened  the  emotions  of  his  manhood,  but  that 
earlier  idol,  whom  she  resembled,  now  enshrined  among  the 
stars. 

Thus  the  fair  face  of  the  dead  mingles  with  the  dim  and 
distant  memories  of  youth.  Thus  it  looks  forth  from  its  world 
of  shadows  upon  his  temptation  and  struggle.  The  thought 
inspired  .him  with  resolution  to  be  steadfast.  The  poetic 
mantle  with  which  his  excited  imagination  had  draped  sur- 
rounding things  fell,  and  he  saw  them  as  they  were.  She, 
fair  child,  upon  the  rock,  exposed  to  chilling  winds  and  un- 


ISOLATED.  197 

wholesome  vapours — he,  a  practical  man,  with  duties  to  per- 
form.    He  returned  to  her,  saying — 

"  You  have  been  here  too  long ;  let  us  go  in." 

"  I  am  glad  you  came  back  for  me,"  she  said,  simply.  "  I 
thought  I  had  displeased  you." 

"  You  never  displease  me,  my  child." 

His  tone  was  tender,  but  it  was  not  the  tenderness  of  a 
lover. 

The  day  that  opened  so  dully  was  not  without  its  bright- 
ness. Helen  came,  and  the  two  friends,  always  so  happy  toge- 
ther, were  doubly  so  from  having  been  long  parted. 

In  the  evening,  when  shutters  and  curtains  were  closed, 
and  lamps  lighted,  the  skilfully-packed  anthracite  glowed  like 
a  wall  of  fire.  It  looked  so  bright,  so  warm,  so  genial,  in  that 
cosy  parlour,  that  those  young  creatures  might  be  pardoned 
for  forgetting  there  was  bitter  suffering,  and  want,  and  cold 
prowling  without.  Walsingham  looked  in  for  a  moment,  ere 
he  betook  himself  to  his  sanctum,  and  was  so  charmed  with 
the  cheerfulness  which  we  describe,  and  still  more  with  the 
sweetly-smiling  faces  to  which  all  this  was  mere  setting,  that 
he  ensconced  himself  in  a  corner  with  his  book,  and  read,  or 
looked,  or  listened,  as  the  humour  prompted. 

Helen  was  achieving  some  feminine  miracle  with  black  and 
red  silk,  on  the  point  of  an  ugly-looking  hooked  needle,  like 
a  dentist's  instrument,  while  Viola,  as  though  inspired  by  the 
indefatigability  of  her  friend's  performance,  cut  and  punched 
great  holes  in  muslin,  and  then  incontinently  sewed  them  up 
again. 

17* 


198  EUOS     AND     ANTEROS. 

"Helen,  why  do  you  sit  so  still?"  she  said  after  having 
achieved  some  unusually  large  punctures. 

"  Do  I  ?  It  is  because  I  cannot  work  and  talk  together,  I 
suppose  ;"  and  she  tortured  the  red  silk  relentlessly. 

"What  a  pity !  Now,  the  faster  I  work  the  faster  I  talk; 
the  fingers  perform  a  running  accompaniment  to  the  tongue.  It 
is  like  playing  on  the  piano,  and  singing,  I  think — Apropos ! 
shall  we  not  have  music?" — and  she  threw  her  embroidery 
down  with  its  last  stab  unhealed.  Helen  gave  a  final  and  fear- 
ful lunge  with  her  suspicious-looking  instrument,  and  grappled 
the  black  silk  without  compassion. 

"  There  !"  said  she,  holding  it  up  to  view,  ".I  have  finished 
that  figure;  does  it  not  look  pretty?  By  the  way,  Viola,  you 
never  crochet." 

"  No.  It  sets  my  teeth  on  edge  to  look  at  you.  I  always 
think  of  dentistry." 

Helen  laughed.  "  I  never  think  of  that.  You  who  have 
so  much  time,  might  make  such  pretty  bags  and  purses  for 
yourself." 

"I  am  not  sure  of  that,"  said  Viola;  "you  are  always 
crocheting;  how  many  bags  and  purses  do  you  own  ?" 

Helen  blushed,  and  laughed  again . 

"  Not  one,  of  course,"  continued  her  friend;  "  I  knew  you 
hadn't.  I  should  not  have  either.  Now,  my  weakness  is 
embroidery.  I  take  especial  delight  in  the  manufacture  of 
collars,  but  no  sooner  do  I  finish  one  than  with  a  morbid  thirst 
for  approbation  I  display,  it  to  a  host  of  admiring  friends.  She 
whose  plaudits  arc  loudest  and  longest  usuall)  receives  the 


ISOLATED.  199 

prize  as  a^eward  for  her  good  taste,  and  a  token  of  my  grati- 
tude. But  we  are  forgetting  the  music." 

Helen,  with  her  terrible  little  instrument,  gave  a  series  of 
pokes,  punches,  and  lunges,  right  and  left,  and  laid  the 
writhing  silks  aside. 

There  was  something  inexpressibly  sweet  to  Walsingham  in 
the  nonsense  of  these  girlish  chatterers.  He  sat  with  eyes 
intent  upon  the  volume  before  him;  but  their  voices  occa- 
sionally struck  his  ear,  causing  a  brighter  thread  to  mingle 
with  the  woof  of  thought,  as  the  babble  of  brooks  or  twitter- 
ing of  birds  attune  the  mind  of  the  wayfarer  to  music. 

Helen  ceased  playing,  and  Viola  exclaimed,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes,  "  How  beautiful !  Dear  gifted  Helen,  I  envy  you  !" 

"  Envy  me  ?  You  mock  me,"  said  Helen,  with  a  dis- 
pleased air. 

"Nay,  I  will  not  be  answered  thus/'  said  her  friend,  em- 
bracing her.  "  I  must  envy  you.  It  is  glorious  to  possess  a 
gift  like  yours.  Do  you  not  play  upon  our  very  heartstrings  ? 
Do  you  not  make  us  weep  tears  so  delicious  that  weeping  seems 
a  joy  ?  Oh,  Helen,  I  have  seen  Cola  shed  such  tears,  as  I  have 
wept  to-night.  Teach  me  your  spell !" 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  as  though  to  hide  her 
emotion.  Walsingham' s  book  fell  to  the  floor,  and  his  pale 
face  was  flushed  as  he  recovered  it;  but  he  did  not  look 
toward  the  girls. 

A  moment  after,  she  dropped  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and 
turned  on  Helen  a  face  radiant  with  smiles,  although  the  long 
eyelashes  were  heavy  .with  moisture. 


200  EROS    AHD    ANTEROS. 

"I  believe  you  are  in  earnest,  dear,  partial,  foolish  girl," 
said  Helen,  kissing  her  wet  eyes.  "  But  there  is  no  gift  of 
mine  worthy  your  envy." 

"  If  you  do  not  know  it,  it  is  time  you  should,"  said  Viola, 
impetuously.  "  Helen,  you  are  a  musical  genius.  There,  you 
need  not  smile,  but  listen.  You  and  I,  with  half  a  dozen 
others,  were  the  pupils  of  one  common  master.  Except  your- 
self, we  all  have  the  same  touch,  the  same  expression,  and  are 
known  wherever  we  go  as  Givonni's  pupils.  You  have  an 
individuality  of  your  own.  You — you — when  did  ever  I  make 
one  weep  ?  Yours  is  not  an  art,  but  an  inspiration." 

Helen  looked  at  the  animated  girl,  and  was  so  absorbed  in 
the  contemplation  of  her  beauty  that  she  scarcely  heard  her. 
"  Strange !"  she  answered,  with  a  sigh,  "  that  you,  whom  I 
so  much  envy,  should  envy  me  !" 

"  Don't  speak  so  earnestly,  dearest.  I  do  not  envy  you  in 
reality — I  admire  and  love  you,  and  I  love  your  gift  in  you. 
I  would  rather  it  belonged  to  you  than  myself,  though ;  for  I 
believe  I  can  enjoy  it  more.  Nor  must  you  envy  me." 

"I  can't  help  it;  and  you  are  so  winning  that  I  must  tell 
you  why.  I  know  that  I  do  possess  musical  genius — I  have 
felt  it  within  me !  I  have  seen  its  effect  upon  those  about 
me :"  and  her  face,  for  a  moment,  glowed  with  conscious 
power. 

"I  don't  think,"  she  added,  "one  can  possess  a  rare  gift 
without  being  conscious  of  it ;  do  you  ?" 

Viola  looked  at  her  in  amused  surprise,  and  answered — 

"No." 


ISOLATED.  201 

The  momentary  light  faded  from  her  face,  leaving  it  troubled. 
"  Don't  think  me  vain/'  she  resumed,  appealingly,  "  or  you 
will  do  me  injustice,  for  I  am  not.  I  am  conscious  of  this 
power,  and  tell  you  of  it,  as  frankly  as  though  communing 
with  my  own  mind.  I  am  also  conscious"  (her  tone  grew 
very  humble)  "  that  I  have  nothing  else." 

Viola  smiled,  and  shook  her  head. 

" I  am  not  witty  and  wise,  as  you  are;  nor  am  I  beautiful. 
The  gift  which  is  mine,  I  do  not  value ;  yours  I  covet." 

"  Wit  and  wisdom  you  have  been  pleased  to  attribute  to  me ; 
they  are  quite  at  your  service,"  said  Viola,  mockingly. 

Helen  shook  her  head. 

"  I  do  not  want  them,  for  they  are  worthless  in  women.  I 
should  care  as  little  for  them  as  for  my  own  talent.  No  one 
loves  us  for  them,  Viola." 

The  tone,  in  which  these  last  words  were  spoken,  was  so 
sad,  that  Viola  threw  her  arms  about  her,  exclaiming, 
"Helen!" 

"  Beauty  is  the  gift  most  dear  in  women.  Beauty  is  what 
my  heart  has  longed  for,  and  it  is  denied  me.  My  love  for 
forms  of  perfectness  is  a  passion.  My  mind  is  filled  with  con- 
ceptions of  grace  and  loveliness.  My  daily  life  is  peopled  with 
glorious  ideals,  and,  with  a  world  of  beauty  within  and  around 
me,  I  wonder  that  my  grosser  part  does  not  take  the  impress 
of  my  thought,  and  grow  to  beauty  also." 

"  Helen,  your  mind,  upon  this  subject,  has  lost  its  tone. 
You  have  grown  morbid." 

"  It  may  bo  so.    Loving  beauty,  as  T  do  •  feeling  profoundly 


202  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

as  I  do  beauty's  power,  how  can  I  help  lamenting  that  this 
precious  gift  of  our  sex  has  been  denied  me  ?  Do  I  not  see, 
too,  that  it  is  only  beauty  that  wins  that  homage  which  is  so 
dear  to  women?  Gentleness  is  applauded  and — oppressed. 
Genius  is  a  flame  for  the  multitude  to  marvel  at  and  avoid — 
but  beauty  !  beauty  is  caressed,  beloved,  worshipped.  Beauty 
is  nature's  dower  to  woman,  and  wins  her  that  which  her  heart 
most  yearns  for — love." 

"Look,  darling  1" 

Helen  turned  in  the  direction  indicated,  and  saw  the  reflec- 
tion of -herself  and  friend  in  the  opposite  pier.  Her  eyes 
were  bright,  her  cheeks  flushed,  and  her  whole  countenance 
radiant  with  excitement.  She  could  not  but  perceive  that  she 
looked  pretty. 

"  There  is  a  mute  witness  ready  to  contradict  you  on  your 
main  point,"  said  Viola,  kissing  her.  "  Do  you  not  see  that 
nature  has  been  a  bountiful  mother,  bestowing  the  very  gift 
you  covet,  although  withholding  the  consciousness  of  posses- 
sion ?" 

"Don't  attempt  to  impose  upon  my  vanity/'  said  Helen, 
pettishly.  "  You  know  I  am  plain." 

"  I  won't,  but  I  will  appeal  to  your  judgment.  Beauty  docs 
not  consist  in  perfection  of  form  and  colour,  little  enthusiast, 
else  why  are  the  most  regular  faces  so  often  distasteful  ?  It  is 
arbitrary,  depending  upon  the  taste  of  the  beholder,  and  th:it 
taste  itself  is  dependent  upon  a  hundred  minor  considerations. 
I'll  venture  to  say  now  that  you  and  I  will  not  agree  upon  the 
appearance  of  any  of  our  friends." 


ISOLATED.  'J03 

"  I'm  sure/'  said  Helen,  with  an  air  of  triumph,  "  all  the 
world  agrees  that  Miss  Ellsmere  is  lovely,  and  you  will  not  be 
a  heretic.  It  is  to  me  a  delight  to  gaze  upon  her.  In  her 
presence,  I  hold  my  breath,  and  cannot  speak,  my  admiration 
is  so  profound." 

Viola  laughed;  and  Helen,  again  blushing,  exclaimed, 
"  Why  do  you  laugh  ?" 

"  Because  you  are  such  a  dear  little  simpleton  of  an  enthu- 
siast, in  the  first  place,  and  because  I  am  thinking  how  shocked 
you  will  be,  by  the  sacrilege  which  I  shall  offer  your  idol  in 
the  second  j  now,  what  will  you  say,  when  I  tell  you  the  sight 
of  Miss  Ellsmere  is  positively  disagreeable  to  me  ?" 

"  Impossible !" 

"  She  has  no  more  animation  or  expression  than  a  death's 
head.  She  looks  like  one  of  those  hideous  waxen  counterfeits 
of  life,  cast  in  a  perfect  mould,  and  softly  coloured,  at  which 
I  never  could  look  in  childhood  without  shuddering.  I  tell 
you,  Helen,  she  has  no  more  soul  than  one  of  them,  and  can- 
not be  beautiful  to  me." 

"  How  can  you  be  so  horrid !  There  is  an  expression  in 
her  beautiful  eyes — " 

"  Of  fatuity,  yes.     I  have  seen  as  good  glass  ones." 

"  This  is  perverseness." 

"  Now  don't  be  angry,  Helen ;  you  are  my  beauty.  I  know 
your  features  are  not  as  regular  as  a  Greek  model,  but  I  never 
saw  a  more  speaking  face.  When  we  are  in  company  together, 
I  listen  to  those  about  me,  and  watch  you  in  the  distance,  as 
a  school  girl  steals  glances  at  an  interesting  volume.  I  see 


204  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

the  play  of  expression  that  seems  to  speak;  the  eloquent 
blood  in  its  ebb  and  flow,  at  one  moment  flushing,  and  at 
another  leaving  you  pale,  and  always  think,  '  she  is  the  most 
charming.' " 

Helen  hid  her  face  on  the  shoulder  of  her  friend,  exclaim- 
ing, "  how  can  you  say  so,  how  can  you  think  so,  Viola  ?" 

"  Why,  you  foolish  little  thing,"  pursued  that  merry  young 
lady,  "  it  is  because  I  love  you,  and  that  brings  me  to  the 
second  head  of  niy  discourse. 

"  You  have  a  pretty  little  theory,  which  your  own  observa- 
tion of  facts  will  not  sustain.  You  said  that  beauty  awakened 
love.  Not  the  love  which  such  women  as  you  and  I  would 
value.  There  are  certain  personal  advantages  which  render 
the  possessor  conspicuous,  and  command  the  fickle  regard  of 
the  multitude ;  but  if  you  could  follow  them  to  their  firesides, 
you  would  find  them  not  more  tenderly  or  fondly  loved  than 
those  who  pass  unobserved  through  the  thoroughfares  of  life. 
In  their  thousand  homes,  these  plain  ones  are  beautiful ;  for 
love  invests  its  object  with  this  charm.  Therefore  is  it,  that 
while  to  the  world,  and  in  your  own  esteem,  you  are  but 
plain,  to  me  you  are  beautiful.  You  are  also  beautiful  to  all 
who  love  you ;  let  that  content  you,  or  I  shall  believe  it  is  not 
affection  for  which  you  are  athirst,  but  admiration." 

Helen  answered  this  dose  of  bitter  sweet  with  one  of  her 
usual  blushes,  and  a  meek  dropping  of  the  eyelids,  that  seemed 
to  signify  she  would  meditate  upon  this  consolation  for  the 
sisterhood  of  plain  ones. 


ISOLATED.  205 

Viola  watched  her  archly  for  a  moment,  but  as  she  watched, 
the  playful  expression  faded,  giving  place  to  seriousness. 

"  My  friend  sets  an  undue  value  upon  a  fleeting  gift,"  she 
said  softly,  "  when  she  prefers  it  to  those  endowments  of  mind 
which  are  imperishable.  Beauty  is  of  the  earth,  earthy.  It 
fades  with  the  breath  of  time,  and.  ends  in  corruption ;  while 
the  endowments  of  the  soul  brighten  and  increase  in  glory 
with  passing  time,  and  are  themselves  immortal." 

"  You  talk  very  beautifully,"  saicl  Helen,  with  a  dash  of 
bitterness ;  "  perhaps  because  you  are  beautiful.  Having  all 
that  the  heart  of  woman  can  desire  to  make  the  present  golden, 
your  mind,  uncramped  by  need  or  want  now,  can  calmly  specu- 
late, philosophize,  and  wonder  what  new  sources  of  delight 
await  upon  its  hereafter." 

"  Helen,  you  are  a  naughty  girl,  and  I  shall  send  you  to 
bedj"  and  Viola  rang  for  lights. 


200  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

A   GOOSE-QUILL   SHAFT   DOUBLE-BARBED. 

COLA  had  written  in  Helen's  album,  had  copied  verses  for 
her,  addressed  her  in  epigrams,  and  in  various  other  ways 
afforded  her  opportunities  of  studying  his  chirography ;  she 
therefore,  on  coming  down  to  breakfast,  recognised  his  dashing 
characters  upon  a  letter  which  Walsingham  gave  Viola. 

A  letter !  who  can  calculate  the  joy  or  grief  within  its  folds  ! 
It  is  the  enchanted  pavilion,  which  one  may  hide  in  palm  or 
pocket,  but  which,  when  unfurled,  may  cover  the  army  of 
hopes,  fears,  and  fancies  trooping  through  the  realm  of 
thought. 

Poor  Helen  had  learned  to  love  this  light-hearted  boy. 
Perhaps  he  had  been  at  some  pains  to  teach  her  the  sweet 
lesson;  and  this  evidence  of  familiar  intercourse  between  her 
lover  and  her  friend,  filled  her  heart  with  dismay.  That 
beautiful  friend,  of  whom  she  was  half  envious,  half  proud, 
and  who  might  prove  so  dangerous  a  rival.  'Twas  but  a  letter, 
but  he  had  never  written  to  her,  who  would  have  treasured  a 


A    GOOSE-QUILL    SHAFT    DOUBLE-BARBED.    207 

line  of  his  like  "letters  of  gold  upon  pictures  of  silver." 
She  had  found  in  his  room,  after  he  returned  to  college,  a 
sheet  of  blotting  paper  scrawled  over  with  her  name.  The 
delighted  girl  laid  this  treasure  between  the  leaves  of  her 
Bible,  where  nightly  it  shared  her  devotions,  and  divided  her 
young  heart  with  its  God.  And  he  had  written  to  Viola  four 
pages !  Her  own  startled  eyes  beheld  that  favoured  girl 
smiling  over  them.  They  had  been  very  intimate,  she  re- 
membered, when  together.  Viola  had  seemed  strangely  in 
his  confidence;  had  told  to  Helen  many  things  about  his 
family  which  she  never  would  have  known. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  he  had  loved  Viola  ?  He  who  with 
honeyed  compliments  and  tender  whisperings  had  wiled  her 
heart  away !  Those  words  of  his,  over  which  she  pondered, 
extracting  new  meaning — the  hoarded  sentences  she  had  de- 
lighted to  repeat  to  her  heart  daily — were  these  treasures 
of  memory  meaningless  ?  Mere  folly  with  which  a  heartless 
young  man  had  beguiled  his  time  ?  She  grew  livid  at  the 
thought,  that  she,  so  timidly  proud,  so  sensitive,  should  have 
been  the  dupe  of  these. 

He  had  appeared  so  earnest,  plead  the  poor  girl  to  herself. 
His  heart  had  seemed  in  his  words,  while  his  bright  face  wore 
such  frankness  and  sincerity.  Was  this  but  part  of  his  hypo- 
crisy ? 

"Oh,"  cried  Viola,  folding  her  letter,  "what  a  negligent 
hostess  I  have  been  !  Mr.  Walsingham  gone  without  his  tea  ! 
and  poor  Helen  sitting  like  pale  patience !"  and  she  bustled 
among  the  china  before  her  in  housewifely  style. 


208  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"  What  will  you  have,  Helen,  this  morning  ?" 

11 1  believe  I — I — don't  want  any  breakfast  either." 

"  Nay,  then  you  are  not  well,  for  breakfast  is  your  favourite 
meal.  How  white  you  are,  too  !  Does  your  head  ache,  dar- 
ling?" 

Helen  put  her  hand  helplessly  to  her  head. 

"  Ah,  I  see  !  'tis  one  of  your  nervous  headaches.  A  cup  of 
hot  black  tea,  and  some  toast,  will  do  you  good ;"  and  Viola 
placed  them  before  her. 

Helen  essayed  to  eat,  but  it  seemed  to  choke  her. 

"At  least  drink  your  tea,"  persisted  Viola.  "It  is  the 
very  thing  for  a  nervous  headache ;"  and  she  held  the  cup  to 
her  lips. 

"  Viola,  why  will  you  tease  me  so !"  cried  the  poor  victim, 
pushing  it  away. 

l(  There,  there  !"  said  Viola,  smoothing  her  hair,  and  speak- 
ing soothingly,  "  I  won't  tease  you,  darling.  You  shall  go 
back  to  your  own  room  and  rest  quietly.  I  will  bathe  your 
head,  and  drop  the  curtains,  and  leave  you  to  sleep." 

Helen  suffered  herself  to  be  led  away  like  one  walking  in 
sleep.  She  lay  upon  her  couch  as  Viola  directed,  and  closed 
her  eyes,  as  though  to  shut  out  misery.  She  felt  the  silken 
covering  laid  softly  over  her,  and  gentle  hands  passing  magneti- 
cally about  her  brow.  Then  a  light  kiss  on  her  cheek,  and  she 
was  left  alone  with  her  first  great  grief. 

Viola,  having  left  her  friend,  as  she  thought,  to  sleep,  sought 
Walsingham's  study.  The  guardian  had  retired  to  his  den 
no  less  perturbed  than  Helen.  He  too  knew  the  writing  on 


A    GOOSE-QUILL    SHAFT    DOUBLE-BARBED.    209 

that  woful  letter,  and  thought  the  hour  so  long  dreaded  was 
at  hand.  When  Viola  tapped  at  the  door  he  nerved  himself 
for  an  interview  which  he  felt  would  be  painful,  and  opened 
it.  How  reverently  he  held  it  as  she  passed  ! 

"I  have  come  to  make  a  confession/'  she  said,  with  her 
happy  smile. 

He  bowed,  handed  her  a  chair,  and  drew  one  for  himself 
near  her. 

"I  can  hardly  forgive  myself,"  she  began,  "for  having  had 
a  secret  from  you, — but — I  was  so  surprised  myself,  at  first — 
and  then — indeed,  it  all  seems  so  strange,  I  hardly  know  how 
to  tell  you  I" 

How  beautiful  she  looked,  blushing  at  her  own  incoherence. 

The  watchful  guardian  hastened  to  relieve  his  darling  from 
her  embarrassment.  "You  need  not  tell  me,"  he  said,  "I 
know  all." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  ?"  she  exclaimed  quickly.  "  He  wished 
to  do  so  at  first,  but  I — I  could  not  bear  to  have  you  learn 
your  little  girl's  secret  from  any  lips  save  her  own." 

"No,  he  did  not.  Mine  is  a  watchful  and  quick-witted 
love,  Viola.  I  discovered  it  myself!" 

"  I  ought  to  have  told  you  at  first,"  she  said,  "but  had  not 
courage.  Is  it  not  strange,  he  felt  drawn  to  me  from  the  first 
moment  he  saw  me,  and  I  to  him.  Oh,  I  have  been  so  happy  ! 
I  hope  you  like  him,  sir !" 

Might  he  not  now,  at  the  moment  when  he  felt  she  was  lost 
to  him  for  ever,  compensate  his  self-denying  love  with  one  cm- 
brace  ?  He  gathered  her  to  his  breast,  and  held  her  close  and 
18* 


210  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

long :  so  close  that  she  felt  against  her  own  the  beatings  of 
that  great  heart,  so  steadfast  in  endurance ;  and  had,  perhaps, 
a  vague  foreshadowing  of  the  purest  passion  that  ever  anguished 
the  soul  of  man. 

"  God  in  Heaven  bless  and  keep  my  little  girl  I" 

She  did  not  know  the  emotions  that  struggled  for  mastery 
in  the  heart  of  Walsingham,  but  the  evident  love  and  suffering 
in  his  manner  touched  her  deeply ;  her  downcast  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  and  when  she  again  looked  up  he  was  gone. 

Viola  did  not  know  why,  but  she  no  longer  felt  happy. 
Her  loving  and  light-hearted  confidence  had  been  checked. 
The  brief,  confused,  and  constrained  sentences  she  had  uttered 
had  been  insufficient  to  express  what  she  desired  to  say.  She 
stood  alone  in  the  library,  for  some  minutes,  trying  to  recall 
exactly  what  had  passed,  hoping  thereby  to  account  for  the 
change  in  herself.  The  influence  had  been  too  subtle  for  her 
to  trace  its  operations,  and  with  a  shaking  of  her  puzzled 
head  she  returned  to  Helen's  chamber,  and  proceeded  to  apply 
remedies  to  the  aching  brow. 

"  Don't  I"  said  Helen ;  "  I  can't  bear  it." 

"Bear  what,  Helen?" 

"Touch,  sound,  sensation,"  murmured  she;  "all  are  so 
intolerable.  The  repose  of  death  seems  sweet  in  contrast." 

Viola  was  shocked,  but  at  this  moment  she  heard  Mrs. 
Irviug's  carriage  coming  for  her  daughter.  She  flew  to  the 
door,  and  embraced  the  pretty  mamma,  saying, 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come !  Helen  has  such  a 
dreadful  headache !" 


A    GOOSE-QUILL    SHAFT    DOUBLE-BARBED.    211 

"  She  has  earned  it,  by  some  imprudence,"  said  that  lady, 
coolly.  "  Did  you  lie  awake  all  night,  talking  nonsense,  as 
usual  ?" 

"  We  talked  all  our  nonsense  before  ten  o'clock,  and  slept 
like  dormice." 

"Then  you  walked  in  the  wet,  I  suppose?"  said  mamma, 
shaking  a  few  snowflakes  from  her  boa,  and  hanging  it  on  the 
hat-stand. 

"  On  the  contrary,  we  prudently  played  a  game  of  battle- 
dore in  the  hall." 

"  And  how  did  you  spend  the  evening  ?"  pursued  the  quiet 
investigator.  "  Helen's  headaches  always  have  a  cause.  Hang 
up  my  hat,  dear." 

"Played,  sang,  and  conversed." 

"  What  was  the  subject  of  your  conversation?" 

"  Beauty,  intellect,  etc.     Helen  seemed  quite  excited." 

"I  hope  you  did  not  quarrel?"  said  Mrs.  Irving,  with  a 
smile,  as  she  ascended  the  stairs. 

Viola  smiled,  too — the  idea  seemed  so  absurd — "  We  never 
do  that,  you  know." 

"  She  was  quite  bright  and  merry,  this  morning,  and  arose 
first,  gibing  me  for  my  indolence,  and  asking  if  I  thought  my 
cap  becoming,  that  I  was  reluctant  to  lay  it  aside.  Then  I  arose, 
and  feeling  that  I  had  lost  time,  dressed  quickly,  and  was  first 
ready  to  descend,  upon  which  we  had  some  further  jesting  about 
the  race  of  the  hare  and  tortoise — when  I  left  her.  When  she 
came  to  the  breakfast-room,  I  was  busy  reading  a  letter,  and 
did  not  at  first  observe  her.  When  I  looked  up,  she  sat  with 


212  EllOS    A.ND    ANTEUOS. 

her  elbows  upon  the  table,  holding  her  head  with  her  hands, 
and  seemed  very  ill.  She  has  hardly  spoken  since." 

"  You  are  as  minutely  circumstantial  as  if  you  were  giving 
an  account  of  a  murder,"  said  Mrs.  Irving,  with  a  smile. 
"  She  will  be  better,  soon,  dear,  so  do  not  trouble  yourself. 
From  whom  did  you  receive  news  this  morning  ?" 

"  Pardon  me,"  she  continued,  perceiving  Viola  hesitated ; 
"  the  question  was  a  careless  one." 

"  I  am  quite  willing  to  answer  it,"  said  Viola.  "  My  letter 
was  from  Cola  Conway." 

Mrs.  Irving  turned  upon  the  landing,  and  looked  at  her 
scrutinizingly.  The  girl  did  not  blush,  as  when  communicat- 
ing with  Walsingham  upon  this  subject ;  but,  in  her  usual  self- 
possessed  manner,  reminded  her  companion  that  the  passage 
was  cold,  and  they  had  better  proceed  to  Helen.  Mrs.  Irving 
was  busy  arranging  her  shawl,  and  did  not  take  the  hand 
offered  her.  She  coldly  answered,  "  Yes,"  and  herself  led 
the  way. 

For  several  days  Helen  kept  her  room,  with  that  obstinate 
headache.  Now  it  was  intense  and  blinding,  and  now  drowsy 
and  dull.  During  all  this  time  a  vague  sense  of  misery 
oppressed  her  j  while  her  mind,  paralyzed  by  pain,  was  incapa- 
ble of  reflecting  upon  or  analyzing  the  cause.  When  she 
became  able  to  bear  the  motion,  Mrs.  Irving  removed  her 
home.  But  the  Helen  who  returned  was  unlike  the  Helen 
who  went  forth — she  was  languid,  inert,  and  abstracted.  She 
would  sit  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  vacancy,  so  lost  in  melancholy  musing,  that  her  tender 


A    GOOSE-QUILL    SHAFT    DOUBLE-BARBED.     213 

mother's  heart  ached  when  she  looked  at  her.  That  watchful, 
thoughtful  mother  knew  full  well  the  operations  of  her  child's 
mind :  she  longed  to  gather  her  to  her  heart,  and  with  loving 
remonstrance  win  her  back  to  cheerfulness;  but  she  desisted, 
lest  it  should  cause  Helen  an  additional  pang  to  know  that  her 
secret  had  been  penetrated  even  by  a  mother's  love.  She 
hoped,  too,  that  her  child  would  of  herself  struggle  against 
and  conquer  the  melancholy  that  oppressed  her. 

In  sooth  it  was  a  dreary  household,  for  the  father  was  still 
moody,  silent,  and  cold,  while  the  daughter  continued  languid 
and  spiritless.  She  resumed  the  little  household  duties  which 
were  hers,  with  such  evident  effort  and  want  of  interest,  as 
discouraged  the  hopeful  mother.  She,  whose  youth  and  joy- 
ousness  had  made  the  sunlight  of  the  house,  was  now  so  sad 
and  silent  that  those  about  her  felt  the  influence  of  her  secret 
sorrow. 

"  Why  do  you  pause  in  your  work,  Helen  ?  do  you  not 
understand  the  pattern  ?  It  is  very  beautiful/'  said  Mrs. 
Irving  one  day,  when  engaged  at  needlework  with  her 
daughter. 

"Is  it?" 

"  Is  it?     Certainly  it  is.     Pansies  and  lilies  of  the  valley." 

"  I  did  not  notice." 

"  I  was  at  some  pains  to  select  something  ttoat  would  suit 
your  taste,  and  am  sorry  my  care  has  been  lost  upon  you," 
said  Mrs.  Irving,  dryly. 

Helen  looked  up  with  wonder  in  her  sad  eyes.  It  was  the 
first  reproach  that  she  had  heard. 


214  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"  I  think  my  daughter  has  grown  indifferent  to  many  things 
she  formerly  thought  worthy  her  attention,"  pursued  the 
mother. 

Tears  now  sprang  to  Helen's  eyes. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see,"  pursued  Mrs.  Irving,  "  that  you  are 
allowing  some  fancied  evil  to  poison  the  enjoyment  of  real 
good.  Why  is  it,  Helen,  that  with  youth,  health,  fortune, 
and  loving  friends,  you  permit  yourself  to  be  unhappy  ?" 

No  reply  being  given  to  this  unanswerable  question,  she 
continued — 

"I  entreat  that  you  will  rouse  yourself — cast  off  the 
melancholy  that,  while  it  oppresses  you,  shadows  those  who 
love  you." 

"  Mother,  spare  me !" 

Mrs.  Irving,  who  had  continued  her  embroidery  while 
speaking,  now  laid  it  down,  and  looked  irresolute.  Resisting 
the  impulse  to  caress  and  soothe  her  child,  she  resumed — 

"  It  is  best,  darling,  that  I  should  speak.  What  cause  have 
you  for  unhappiness,  that  makes  it  so  impossible  for  you  to 
recover  your  mental  balance  ?  If  the  hand  of  God  had  dealt 
to  you  affliction  or  bereavement,  it  would  not  justify  the  con- 
dition of  your  mind.  Life  is  not  all  a  holiday — happiness  our 
inheritance  and  right,  that  we  should  find  in  sorrow  an  excuse 
for  indifference  to  the  duties,  and  ingratitude  for  the  blessings 
of  life.  When  our  path  lies  in  sunshine,  we  should  be  thank- 
ful; when  amid  storms,  patience  and  endurance  become  us. 
Because  we  have  been  cherished  in  the  warmth  of  God's 
Smile,  shall  we  rebel  against  his  frown?  But  you,  my 


A    GOOSE-QUILL    SHAFT    DOUBLE-BARBED.    215 

daughter,  to  whom  actual  sorrow  has  never  coine,  cannot  even 
plead  that  poor  excuse  for  your  unhappy  frame  of  mind." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  if  you  had  ever  suffered  as  I,  you  would 
pity  me." 

"  I  have  had  my  own  sad  experiences  of  life.  What  are 
my  daughter's,  that  she  thinks  they  surpass  mine  ?" 

Helen  blushed,  partly  at  the  selfishness  of  sorrow,  which 
had  caused  her  to  forget  that  great  bereavement  under  which 
her  mother  had  borne  herself  with  Christian  heroism ;  partly 
at  the  suspicion  that  hers  might  be  but  an  ideal  sorrow, 
siuce  she  dared  not  bare  it  to  the  scrutiny,  nor  claim  the  sym- 
pathy, of  that  calm  reasoning,  yet  tender  mother. 

Mothers  are  said  to  be  impatient  of  daughters'  tender  woes. 
Even  those  who,  in  youth,  have  experienced  youth's  tribula- 
tions, fail  to  sympathize  with  those  interesting  sorrows  in  their 
children.  It  may  be,  that  time,  and  matrimony,  and  succeed- 
ing affections  obliterate  the  memory  of  "true  love's  vicissi- 
tudes" in  the  matron's  mind.  Mrs.  Irving's  heart  history 
was  simple.  She  was  beloved,  responded  truly  to  the  affection 
she  inspired,  and  wedded ;  ever  after,  as  the  fairy  tales  have 
it,  "living  in  peace."  It  may  be,  that  with  these  limited 
experiences,  she  could  not  fully  appreciate  her  daughter's 
suffering ;  and  it  may  be  well  she  did  not.  Her  love  for  a 
good  child  taught  her,  in  some  degree,  sympathy  with  a  grief 
she  could  not  fully  understand ;  but  so  far  from  treating  it 
with  indulgent  delicacy,  she  boldly  attacked  it  with  reasons. 

"  What  are  my  daughter's  griefs,  that  she  thinks  they  sur- 
pass mine  ?"  echoed  in  Helen's  ears.  She  remembered  when 


216  EROS    AND    ANTEKOS. 

death  had  entered  their  nursery,  and  removed  the  eldest  born, 
and  dearest.     She  recalled  the  suffering  mother's  face,  bend- 
ing over  her  remaining  ones  in  agony,  and  tears,  such  as  had 
appalled  their  wondering  little  hearts.     How  her  great  sorrow 
shrank  into  insignificance  before  a  woe  so  stern  and  real ! 
"  Helen,  shall  there  not  be  confidence  between  us  ?" 
She  threw  herself  into  her  mother's  arms,  sobbing,  "Oh, 
mother !     Good,  wise,  kind  mother,  pity  me !  not  my  grief 
more  than  my  folly  aiftl  weakness.     Would  that  you  could 
look  into   my  heart   and   read   the   disquiet  that  I  cannot 


"You  need  not,  my  daughter,  I  know  all;"  and  folding 
her  in  her  arms,  she  suffered  her  to  weep  unchecked. 

"  Helen,"  she  said,«at  last,  "  do  you  remember  the  sorrows 
of  childhood,  over  which  your  little  heart  was  well  nigh 
broken  ?  You  smile  at  them  now !  They  seem  so  pretty, 
and  tender,  and  pleasant  to  remember.  They  impart  such 
dignity  and  piquancy  to  childhood,  that  'tis  oftenest  through 
them  childhood  is  recalled.  The  first  grief  of  youth  has 
befallen  you  now,  and  youth's  energies  are  well  nigh  crushed 
thereby :  your  matured  womanhood  will  smile  at  this  girlish 
grief,  as  girlhood  now  looks  back  upon  childish  ills.  As  your 
path  winds  downward  through  the  future,  cares  and  sorrows 
will  beset  it,  such  as  would  appal  these  bright  young  years ;  but 
if  I  read  my  daughter's  character  aright,  she  will  grow  strong 
with  her  necessities ;  and  hereafter  bear  with  brave  submis- 
sion, burdens,  compared  with  which  the  sorrow  under  which 
she  is  now  sinking  will  seem  ligb*  And  in  the  hereafter  it 


A    GOOSE-QUILL    SHAFT    DOUBLE-BARBED.    217 

must  be,  that  the  soul  blessed  in  Paradise,  will  look  back 
upon  the  great  tribulations  of  humanity  through  which  she 
has  passed,  with  the  same  serene  and  smiling  contemplation 
that  she,  while  in  the  flesh,  accorded  to  sorrows  above  which 
she  rose  superior." 

As  these  loving  women  sat  together  thus  talking,  twilight 
came  down,  and  still  their  soft  voices  murmured  through  its 
tender  shadow  like  the  song  of  waves  at  night. 


19 


218  EROS    AND    ANTER08. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

DISQUIET. 

HELEN'S  secret  grief  seemed  lighter,  since  it  was  shared 
by  another,  and  she  became  once  more  cheerful.  Her  house- 
hold duties  were  resumed ;  music  again  breathed  through  her 
home,  and  smiles  wreathed  her  lip.  But  the  smile  was  faint 
and  quiet,  the  music  sad,  and  the  accustomed  avocations  per- 
formed with  a  calmer,  graver  grace. 

It  was  the  custom  of  this  humble-hearted  girl  to  sit  in 
severe  judgment  upon  herself;  and,  in  the  present  instance, 
she  bitterly  reproached  what  she  considered  the  arrogant 
vanity  that  had  given  a  significance  to  Cola's  attentions  to  her- 
self which  they  did  not  merit;  and  had  permitted  her  to 
believe  that  she  possessed  any  charm  sufficiently  potent  to 
attract  one  exposed  to  the  counter  influence  of  Viola's  love- 
liness. But  as  she  recalled  all  that  had  passed  between 
herself  and  the  volatile  object  of  her  regard,  she  could  not, 
with  all  her  humility,  exonerate'  him  from  blame.  She  slowly 
began  to  fear  that  this  paragon,  this  perfect  model  of  man- 


DISQUIET.  219 

hood,  this  incarnation  of  adorable  virtues,  had,  while  acting 
the  lover  to  herself,  and  the  friend  to  her  brother,  been  false 
to  both.  That,  however  handsome  and  brilliant  he  might  be, 
he  lacked  those  high-toned  principles  which  she  had  credu- 
lously attributed  to  him,  and  without  which  more  showy  gifts 
are  worthless. 

There  was  an  added  grief  in  this  thought  to  Helen.  The 
belief  that  she  had  loved  unwisely  had  stricken  her  heart,  but 
the  bolt  seemed  barbed  by  the  conviction  that  she  loved  un- 
worthily. She  felt — this  pure-hearted  young  idolater — that 
she  could  have  resigned  to  the  cold  keeping  of  the  charnel,  or 
the  warm  arms  of  another,  the  man  whom  love  had  deified,  if 
he  had  passed  thus  from  her  hope,  with  the  glorious  attributes 
with  which  believing  love  had  endowed  him,  unshadowed.  She 
could  have  exulted  in  having  loved  him  then,  and  been  hap- 
pier in  her  desolation,  with  her  holy  memories  about  her,  than 
in  the  full  fruition  of  a  grosser  love. 

In  loving  truth,  in  revering  virtue,  in  striving  after  perfec- 
tion, she  still  could  have  indulged  her  love  for  him  who  had 
been  to  her  young  spirit  the  embodiment  of  these.  But  alas, 
alas !  The  god  was  unshrined,  and  the  worshipper  must  be- 
come an  iconoclast. 

In  her  own  grief  her  sympathies  were  quick  for  others.  For 
Viola,  whom  she  loved  through  the  dangerous  test  of  a  suc- 
cessful rivalship — Viola,  before  whose  delicate  perceptions  of 
right  the  double  lover  would  stand  dishonoured — Viola, 
stronger  and  prouder  than  herself,  who,  when  she  came  to 
know  him,  would 


220  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"  Whistle  him  down  the  wind, 
E'en  though  his  jesses  were  her  dear  heart  strings." 

And  for  Howard !  While  submitting  to  her  own  bitter 
blight  with  patience,  she  thought  of  his  probable  disappoint- 
ment with  a  tincture  of  his  own  rebellion.  How  was  this  im- 
perious and  unthwarted  boy  to  bear  being  crossed  in  his  master 
passion ;  and  by  the  treachery  of  the  friend  he  trusted  ?  Her 
heart  quaked,  and,  in  the  thought  of  his  stormy  grief,  she  for- 
got her  own. 

Sometimes  ingenious  and  charitable  hope  beguiled  her,  re- 
conciling all  that  was  contradictory  in  Cola's  conduct,  and 
making  his  acts  harmonize  with  friendship,  honour,  and  good 
faith.  What  was  there  so  hopelessly  condemning  in  the  evi- 
dence of  that  letter?  He  might  merely  have  sent  Viola  a 
copy  of  some  literary  curiosity  from  the  college  library.  This 
would  have  been  natural  and  like  him,  and,  above  all,  was  ac- 
ceptable to  belief. 

The  glow  of  pleasure  which  such  thought  called  to  her 
cheek  quickly  faded,  as  she  reflected  with  what  ready  confi- 
dence Viola  would  have  shared  a  communication  of  that  kind 
with  her,  instead  of  folding  it  in  silence,  as  though  laying  a 
secret  between  its  leaves,  looking  so  triumphant  in  beauty  and 
happiness  the  while.  At  the  remembrance  her  heart  bled 
afresh — that  hapless  heajt,  within  whose  silent  borders  hope 
and  fear  perpetually  conflicted. 

From  the  moment  that  Walsingham  was  convinced  that 
Viola  loved,  there  was  an  inner  voice  ever  saying,  "lost! 
lost!"  The  dim  image  of  one  who  was  to  rob  him  of  the  joy 


DISQUIET.  221 

of  life,  that  had  so  long  stood  threateningly  in  the  distance, 
now  drew  near,  and  assumed  a  tangible  shape.  He  did  not  in- 
quire into,  or  resist  the  girlish  will  that  smilingly  crushed  out 
his  hope,  but  systematically  preferred  her  wishes  and  happi- 
ness to  his  own. 

How  disciplined  had  the  heart  of  this  noble  man  become 
since  its  first  trial !  That  early  love,  so  far  back  in  the  past, 
had  been  but  the  desire  of  sentimental  youth  for  its  vision  of 
beauty — this  was  the  full-grown  passion  of  matured  and  earnest 
manhood.  Yet  to  the  first  he  succumbed,  sacrificing  the  pro- 
mise and  flush  of  youth;  with  the  last,  albeit  deeper  and 
stronger,  he  grappled  bravely,  matching  passion  with  strong 
will,  and  high  resolve  for  the  sake  of  her  who  smiled  in  un- 
conscious happiness  beside  his  hearthstone. 

Viola,  as  though  in  very  mockery  of  the  heartaches  she 
caused,  seemed  childishly  happy.  She  laughed,  danced,  and 
sang  with  an  exuberant  joy  that  caused  Mrs.  Grey  to  declare 
fo»  her  part,  she  liked  not  such  mirth,  having  noticed  that 
those  who  laugh  in  the  new  moon  must  weep  in  the  old  j  and 
Jim  Crow,  with  his  own  diabolical  solemnity,  stalked  near,  her 
like  an  evil  portent. 

Howard,  in  the  mean  time,  dreamed  love-dreams  over  his 
books,  which  always  ended  happily,  or  wrote  love  verses  that 
were  unhappily  marred ;  and  so  the-  Christmas  Holidays  drew 
nigh. 


222  EROS    AND    ANTER08. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

A   SURPRISE. 

THE  weather  was  now  inclement,  and  Viola  was  often  a  pri- 
soner within  doors ;  but  this  was  no  privation  to  one  for  whom 
life  in  all  its  phases  mantled  with  pleasure.  The  same  warm 
fancy  that  in  childhood  filled  the  forest  of  the  Bluff  with  en- 
chantments was  with  her  still,  peopling  the  wintry  solitude 
with  its  creations. 

Walsingham  made  frequent  excursions  to  the  village.  From 
one  of  these  he  returned  with  a  package  of  hooks.  "  There," 
he  said,  handing  a  volume  to  Viola,  "  is  a  romance  for  you." 

"  Romance  I"  she  exclaimed,  examining  the  title,  "why 
this  is  history." 

"  Can  it  not  be  both  ?"  he  asked,  tearing  the  envelopes  from 
his  books,  one  by  one. 

"No,"  she  answered  quickly,  "because  one  is  a  narration 
of  facts,  and  the  other  of  fiction." 

Ho  looked  up  suddenly,  and  smiled.    "  You  are  well  booked 


A    SURPRISE.  223 

in  your  meanings ;  but  cannot  a  skeleton  of  fact  be  draped  in 
fiction  ?" 

"  Certainly  it  can;  but  what  it  gains  in  romance,  it  loses  in 
its  integrity  of  history." 

"  Not  necessarily  so,"  said  he,  pushing  the  books  away,  and 
turning  toward  her.  "  These  cold  remains  of  facts,  exhumed 
from  the  dust  of  ages,  are  but  the  skeletons  of  things  past. 
They  have  lost,  in  the  decay  of  time,  those  minor  circum- 
stances that  filled  their  outline  to  roundness.  They  have  lost 
the  busy  thought  that  inspired,  the  warm  passion  that  animated, 
and  have  become  repulsive  and  unfaithful  images  of  things 
that  were.  Let  the  imagination  of  the  historian  reproduce  the 
semblance  of  what  they  have  lost ;  let  his  fancies  reanimate, 
his  probabilities  drape,  and  they  once  more  grow  life-like. 
They  are  not  more  real  than  before,  but  they  are  so  brought 
within  the  range  of  our  sympathies  that  they  seem  so,  and 
conjecture  wins  that  attention,  nay,  credence  for  truth,  that 
truth  failed  to  command." 

"It  is  still  conjecture,  and  not  truth.  Fiction,  and  not 
fact." 

"  I  am  not  willing  to  admit  that.  Human  nature  is  the 
same  in  all  ages,  and  with  suitable  data  may  not  its  move- 
ments be  calculated  with  mathematical  accuracy  by  those  phi- 
losophers who  have  made  man  their  study  ?  The  course  of 
comets  in  their  orbits  is  conjectured  with  unerring  certainty." 

Viola  laughed,  and  so  did  her  guardian.  "Your  theory 
pleases  me  much,  but  it  is  the  converse  of  what  you  have 
heretofore  urged ;  I,  in  stoutly  maintaining  the  distinction  be- 


224  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

tween  fact  and  fiction,  have  only  endeavoured  to  do  justice  to 
your  previous  teaching,  but  I  shall  say  with  Katherine — 

'  It  is  the  blessed  sun. 
But  sun  it  is  not,  when  you  say  it  is  not, 
And  the  moon  changes,  even  as  your  mind.'  " 

"  And  I  have  learned  my  later  theory  from  you  j  thus,  you  see, 
we  teach  each  other." 

"  From  me  ?" 

"Yes;  from  reflecting  upon  the  character  of  your  mind, 
and  observing  its  operations.  You  would  be  an  imaginative 
historian,  but  not  an  unfaithful  one.  Do  you  remember  the 
blind  beggar  that  came  out  of  Farmer  Goodman's  door,  as  you 
and  Mrs.  Grey  drove  down  the  road  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  what  has  he  to  do  with  history  ?" 

"  He  illustrates  different  styles  of  history.  Mrs.  Grey  said 
that  '  the  women  folks  came  out  and  stared  after  him  as  far 
as  they  could  see,'  which  was  naked  fact.  You  told  me,  '  and 
those  two  compassionate  women  followed  him  to  the  door,  and 
watched  him  with  sorrow  in  their  hearts.'  This  was  fact 
adorned  by  fancy.  You  did  but  conjecture  the  compassion 
and  sorrow,  yet  conjectured  accurately,  knowing  what  were  the 
natural  emotions  of  the  female  heart." 

"  I  think,"  he  continued,  gathering  up  his  books  to  depart, 
"  that  you  will  like  the  Historical  Fragment  I  have  selected 
for  you.  It  is  a  correct  chronicle  of  the  times  it  purports  to 
portray,  while  a  certain  richness  of  fancy  gives  tone  to  the 
whole." 


A    SURPRISE.  225 

Viola  drew  an  arin-chair  to  the  fire,  and  nestling  in  its 
depths,  abandoned  herself  to  the  enjoyment  of  her  book.  It 
was  a  glowing  chronicle  of  the  crusades — to  a  lively  imagina- 
tion, such  as  hers,  an  actual  panorama  of  that  wonderful  and 
eventful  era  in  the  world's  history.  Absorbed  in  the  narra- 
tive, she  grew  oblivious  to  actual  things,  and  stood  in  the 
presence  of  kings,  warriors,  knights,  ladies,  and  troubadours. 
The  four  walls  that  enclosed  her,  faded;  time's  vast  vista 
spread  before  her ;  those  who  had  marked  the  years  with  their 
deeds  were  again  engaged  in  the  drama  of  nations. 

Suddenly,  intruding  upon  the  gorgeous  vision,  a  rough, 
weather-beaten  face  peered  curiously  into  her  own. 

The  valor  of  departed  heroes  did  not  animate  her  heart. 
With  a  shriek  of  alarm  and  surprise,  she  leaped  from  her  seat, 
and  would  have  fled,  but  for  the  stout  grasp  that  held  her. 

Sick  with  terror,  her  eyes  closed ;  when  Walsingham,  hear- 
ing her  shriek,  came  to  the  rescue.  He  released  the  frightened 
girl  and  hurled  the  intruder  from  him. 

Viola  clung  to  her  guardian,  half  fainting,  and  again  his 
heart  throbbed  wildly  as  he  clasped  her.  She  had  flown  to 
his  bosom  like  a  frightened  dove,  and  the  vain  wish  arose  that 
it  had  been  her  chosen  refuge  from  all  the  ills  of  life. 

"  Welcome  home  !"  growled  the  gruff  intruder.  "I  suppose 
that's  what  all  this  means ;  but  hang  me  at  the  yard-arm  if  I 
can  interpret  in  this  port.  Timbuctoo  is  plain  English  along 
side  o'  that !" 

"  Heavens,  Ben  !"  exclaimed  Walsingham,  "  is  it  you  ? 
Look  up,  Viola,  and  welcome  your  uncle  Captain  !" 


226  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"If  this  gimcrack  is  of  any  use,  it  will  tell  me  why  my 
own  brother  has  forgotten  m.e,"  continued  the  indignant  and 
ill-used  Captain,  squaring  himself  before  the  mirror. 

Viola  saw  that  the  worthy  gentleman  felt  aggrieved;  and 
between  nervous  agitation  and  vexation,  she  was  about  burst- 
ing into  tears.  Fortunately  she  resisted  a  weakness  which, 
if  indulged,  would  have  condemned  her  in  his  estimation 
utterly;  and  taking  both  his  brown  hands  in  her  own,  she 
kissed  his  cheek,  saying,  "  Welcome  home,  Uncle  Captain,  and 
pray  forgive  my  foolish  fright.  No  one  has  cared  to  make  a 
brave  girl  of  me,  while  you  were  gone." 

Whether  it  was  the  look,  the  voice,  the  kiss,  or  the  covert 
flattery,  that  thrilled  the  sailor's  heart  and  charmed  away  his 
impatience,  this  chronicler  recordeth  not,  but  he  warmly 
embraced  her,  saying, 

"  Why,  now,  you  are  a  brave  girl  still  in  an  open  sea,  I 
believe.  But  if  you  mope  over  such  trumpery  as  that,  you 
will  grow  as  nervous  as  the  dowager  Duchess  of  Diddledum ;" 
and  he  gave  the  fallen  book  a  kick,  expressive  of  contempt. 

"So  be  it  with  them  all,  now  that  I  have  come,  for  I 
always  hated  them,  and  most  of  all  in  a  woman's  hand.  Show 
me  a  book  while  I'm  here,  and  I'll  be  tempted  to  burn  it." 

"  I  hope  not,  Uncle  Captain,"  said  Viola,  laughing,  "  for 
when  you  are  away  they  are  my  best  friends." 

"  And  I  hope  not,  too,"  said  Walsingham,  "  for  they  are 
our  best  friends  always." 

"Look  at  that,  now!"  quoth  the  Captain,  "and  see  how 


A    SURPRISE.  227 

books  pervert  a  fine  nature.  There  was  a  time  when  he  would 
have  ranked  us  first,  Viola." 

"If  you  or  Viola  should  be  jealous  of  my  mute  companions, 
it  will  be  because  you  do  not  understand  how  much  I  value 
you." 

"  Uncle  Captain,  those  horrid  wrappings  disguise  you  so 
much,  that  I  have  not  recognised  you  yet.  Come  to  your  own 
old  room,  and  make  yourself  like  yourself,  and  then  tell  us  of 
your  travels." 

Uncle  Captain  prepared  to  depart,  in  accordance  with  this 
invitation,  when,  measuring  with  his  eye  the  young  lady's 
altitude,  he  asseverated, — "  By  Juno !  if  he  had  seen  her 
looking  so  like  Juno's  self,  when  first  he  came,  he  should  have 
bowed,  and  scraped,  and  made  a  fool  of  himself. 

"  But  when  I  saw  you,"  he  continued,  "  curled  up  among 
the  cushions,  like  a  lady's  lap-dog,  with  your  sweet  little  face 
peering  out  from  its  curls,  I  caught  you  in  my  arms,  thinking 
this  is  the  blessed  child  again.  But,  alack-a-day  !  you  are  no 
child  now,  and  young  ladies  are  my  aversion." 

"  I  shall  make  a  vow  to  redeem  the  race  in  your  estimation, 
or  undo  all  that  time  has  done  for  me ;  and,  in  the  mean  time, 
pray  treat  me  as  your  pet  of  old,  if  you  don't  intend  to  break 
my  heart." 

Thus  talking,  they  left  the  room  together,  and  Walsingham 
looked  after  them  in  surprise.  In  Viola's  deportment  to  the 
Captain  there  was  a  familar  enfant  gatl  air  that  he  had  never 
observed  in  her  before.  He  could  not  say  that  it  did  not 
become  her,  and  the  old  tar  was  evidently  charmed  by  it  j  but 


228  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

her  timid  deference  to  himself,  her  modest  hesitation  in 
approaching  him,  was  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful,  he 
thought.  She  had  kissed  the  Captain,  too ;  but  had  never, 
since  childhood,  offered  him  that  token  of  regard.  This 
difference  of  manner  toward  these  gentlemen  was  an  insensible 
reflection  of  their  respective  characters — the  Captain  being 
hearty,  cordial,  and  free,  while  his  brother  was  fastidious  and 
reserved. 


CONTINUED    ARRIVALS.  229 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

CONTINUED   ARRIVALS. 

Now  the  holidays  were  at  hand,  and  every  one  prepared  to 
meet  them  with  holiday  cheer.  The  Captain  declared  he  had 
not  met  St.  Nick  on  land  for  ten  years,  and  he  meant  to  have 
a  jolly  blow-out.  Walsingham  looked  forward  with  a  quiet 
pleasure  to  his  annual '  excuse  for  lavishing  gifts  upon  his 
darling.  Mrs.  Irving  expected  to  welcome  home  her  best 
beloved,  her  idol,  her  handsome,  spirited,  spoiled  boy,  while 
her  husband,  with  a  father's  pride  and  pleasure,  would  mark 
the  maturing  promise  of  him  who  should  fill  his  place,  and 
shoulder  the  burdens  of  life  when  he  should  lay  them  down. 

Viola's  strange  delirium  of  happiness  could  not  well  be 
augmented  ;  while  Helen,  poor  sad  Helen,  shrank  from  the 
approaching  festivities.  The  ordinary  requirements  of  daily 
life  she  had  disciplined  herself  to  meet;  but  to  vest  her 
thought  in  holiday  garb,  to  ask  a  song  of  her  heart  in  its  sad- 
ness, was  more  than  she  was  able  to  do. 

How  sad  is  the  approach  of  a  festival  to  the  mourning 
heart !  It  shrinks  as  from  an  advancing  foe.  Nothing  can 
'20 


230  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

add  a  keener  pang  to  grief  than  the  unsympathizing  aspect 
of  nature.  She  pauses  not  to  comfort  her  suffering  children, 
but  moves  in  her  appointed  sphere,  and  with  her  wonted 
majesty,  over  the  griefs  of  a  household  or  the  graves  of 
empires.  The  stars  rise  and  set,  unmoved  by  our  joys, 
untouched  by  our  sorrows.  The  seasons  advance  and  retire, 
unmindful  of  one  welcome  less,  or  one  grave  more. 

Blessed  are  they  who  can  look  beyond  the  calm,  unsympa- 
thizing skies,  and  say,  God  sees  !  God  pities  ! 

"  Cola  is  a  splendid  fellow,  is  he  not  ?"  wrote  the  uncon- 
scious Howard  to  his  sister.  "  He  is  the  most  popular  man 
in  college,  and  the  girls  are  all  in  love  with  him.  He  is  called 
the  "  king  of  hearts,"  and  a  regular  trump !  I  believe  the 
dog  has  a  dozen  invitations  for  the  holidays ;  but  he  prefers  a 
slice  of  mamma's  turkey,  and  a  wedge  of  your  mince  pie,  to 
the  finest  spread  in  Christendom.  To  confess  an  absurd 
jealousy,  I  did  not  intend  to  bring  him  home  with  me,  for 
reasons  which  you  will  probably  appreciate  (under  certain 
circumstances  one  does  not  like  to  be  overshadowed) ;  but  the 
poor  fellow  asked  me,  in  the  coolest  possible  way,  if  he  had 
not  been  invited ;  and  I  told  him,  if  he  would  promise  to  be 
only  moderately  agreeable,  he  might  pack  his  trunk.  So  bid 
mamma  make  ready  to  welcome  us." 

Upon  this  epistle  being  submitted  to  mamma,  she  wrote  to 
her  son  that  in  consequence  of  other  invitations  for  the  holi- 
days, it  wo*uld  be  out  of  her  power  to  receive  his  friend.  This 
inhospitable  letter  passing  the  young  gentlemen  on  their  route, 
failed  to  interfere  with  their  plans. 


CONTINUED    ARRIVALS. 

And  onward  the  frosty  Christmas  came,  neither  hastening 
for  the  eager,  or  pausing  for  the  unwilling.  A  deep  snow  had 
fallen  the  week  before,  and  the  Bluff,  like  a  hoary  Titan,  reared 
its  front  above  ice-bound  river  and  drifted  valley.  The  air 
was  filled  with  the  music  of  bells ;  the  river  covered  with 
skaters;  missiles  of  snow  flew  like  sugar-plums  in  Carnival 
time,  and  coasting  was  as  fashionable  among  the  rustics  of  the 
Susquehanna  as  at  the  court  of  St.  Petersburg. 

The  Captain  romped  and  roared,  like  Boreas  let  loose,  and 
insisted  upon  the  minute  observance  of  Christmas  ceremonials. 
With  his  own  hand  he  lopped  the  redundant  branches  of 
mountain  evergreens  to  decorate  the  house.  Mirrors,  pictures, 
and  brackets  were  hung  with  wreaths — boughs  filled  the  vacant 
corners,  and  the  Eyrie  looked  like  a  sylvan  lodge. 

In  accordance  with  this  boyish  gentleman's  views,  the  stock- 
ing ceremonial  was  observed.  Viola's  silken  hose  grew  ple- 
thoric with  corals  from  the  Mediterranean,  mosaics  from 
Florence,  cameos  from  Rome,  and  uncut  gems,  gathered  by  the 
Captain's  hand  in  their  native  valleys,  waiting  for  their  lady's 
fancy  and  the  lapidary's  art  to  develope  their  latent  bril- 
liancy. Mrs.  Grey's  knitted  stocking  of  home-made  thread 
was  pressed  into  the  chimney  service,  albeit  against  the  will 
of  its  respectable  owner,  and  served  to  transmit  to  that  worthy 
dame  a  watch  of  capacious  dimensions,  insidiously  intended  to 
usurp  the  ft'me-honoured  kitchen  clock  in  her  affections. 

It  may  be  remarked,  in  passing,  that  it  failed  of  its  mis- 
sion; the  good  lady  never  remembering  to  wind  it  oftener 
than  once  a  week.  That  duty  being  performed  with  exact 


232  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

regularity  on  Saturday  night  at  ten  o'clock,  the  chronometer 
graced  her  girdle  on  Sunday,  and  was  honoured  with  confidences 
and  consultations  throughout  the  holy  day.  But  on  Monday, 
being  silent  and  dumb,  and  treacherously  misleading  its  mistress 
when  appealed  to,  it  was  consigned  to  limbo,  and  Mrs.  Grey,  for 
the  rest  of  the  week,  might  be  seen  in  transit,  from  one  haunt 
to  another,  with  the  clock  under  her  arm,  as  usual. 

Nor  was  Jim  Crow  forgotten.  A  glove  of  his  own  pilfer- 
ing was  drawn  from  its  hiding-place,  and  hung  up  on  his 
behalf.  Viola  filled  it  with  bonbons,  to  which  treasure  of 
tinsel  and  sweets  he  seemed  profoundly  indifferent.  But  upon 
their  being  removed  to  the  pantry,  the  nefarious  little  wretch 
took  great  delight  in  filching  them  upon  every  opportunity, 
believing  them  to  be  contraband. 

While  these  Christmas  Eve  observances  were  receiving  their 
due  in  the  Eyrie,  the  Irvings  were  watching  for  the  coach 
which  was  to  deposit  Howard  at  the  gate.  How  pretty,  and 
attractive,  and  fairy-like  that  home  looked,  with  its  luxurious 
appointments,  its  festive  decorations,  its  genial  fireside,  and 
its  sweet,  loving,  welcoming  women !  Mrs.  Irving's  thoughts 
and  cares  seemed  to  oscillate  between  the  crowded  coach,  drag- 
ging along  the  wintry  road,  and  the  bountiful  supper  that 
bubbled  and  squeaked  by  her  kitchen  fire. 

"  Poor  fellow !"  she  would  say,  "  what  a  long,  comfortless 
ride  he  is  having  !  I  wonder  if  Macey's  cakes  are  light  ?"  or — 

"  I  fear  he  will  be  half-frozen,  and  the  chicken  overdone ! 
Poor  Howard  !  he  was  always  hungry  !"  and  she  smiled  such 
a  proud  smile,  as  though  it  was  the  happiest  thing  in  life  to 


CONTINUED    ARRIVALS.  233 

be  the  mother  of  a  hungry  son.  Often  she  placed  her  hand 
against  the  window-pane,  to  shut  from  her  sight  the  warmth 
and  light  of  that  cheerful  room,  and  gazed  down  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  winter  night,  hoping  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  vehicle  which  carried — Tier  Ccesar;  then  disappearing  from 
the  room  for  a  space,  would  return,  wafting  such  savoury 
odours  from  her  garments  as  caused  George  Irving  to  lay  aside 
his  book,  sniff  the  air,  and  wish,  with  all  his  hungry  heart, 
the  coach  would  come. 

"  Tra-la-la — tra-la-la  !"  smote  the  sharp  air,  and  the  coach 
was  at  the  gate.  Mr.  Irving  took  his  hat,  and  went  forth  to 
welcome  his  son,  while  the  mother  and  Helen  peered  from  the 
hall-door,  endeavouring  to  distinguish  in  the  group  around  the 
vehicle,  the  form  of  "their  expected  brother  and  son.  It  was 
clear,  sparkling,  and  frosty  without ;  the  coachmen  and  pas- 
senges  were  closely  muffled,  and  spoke  with  thick,  chilled 
voices,  yet  cheerily ;  for  were  they  not  all  going  where  Christ- 
mas welcome  and  Christmas  cheer  awaited  them  ?  And  at 
the  sight  of  those  fair  women,  waiting  in  their  warmed  and 
lighted  hall  to  embrace  their  clever  fellow-traveller,  did  they 
not  think  of  others  as  fair  elsewhere,  whose  hearts  would 
gladden  at  their  coming,  and  whose  welcome  would  be  as  sweet 
and  warm  ? 

Suddenly,  Helen  grew  very  pale,  and  grasped  Mrs.  Irving's 
arm,  exclaiming,  "  Mother  !" 

" Don't  be  so  excited,  my  love;  keep  calm." 

"  Mother,  he  has  come  !" 

"  Yes,  dear  ;  Howard." 
20* 


284  BEOS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"  No !  that  other  I  I  would  know  his  step  aiid  voice  among 
a  thousand !" 

"  He  dare  not  intrude,  after  what  I  have  written." 

"  Hush,  mother,  I  implore  you,  he  is  here.  Welcome  him, 
if  you  would  not  humiliate  me." 

"  But  you,  my  darling" — 

"  I  will  not  betray  myself." 

"  Mother,  hurrah  !  here  we  are !  how  handsome  you  look  1 
Kiss  me,  Helen — there,  don't  cling  so  to  me,  but  shake  hands 

with  Cola." 

*  ***** 

The  Christmas  dinner  at  Mrs.  Irving's  was  by  no  means  a 
model  of  what  such  things  should  be.  That  usually  hospita- 
ble lady  was  embarrassed  by  the  presence  of  an  unwelcome 
guest,  and  perturbed  by  the  unnecessary  trial  imposed  upon 
her  daughter. 

Helen,  usually  calm  and  quiet,  was  boisterously  gay ;  while 
Cola,  with  those  nice  perceptions  which  often  pierce  conven- 
tional disguises,  felt  that  his  presence  was  unlocked  for  and 
unwelcome.  Guilty  fellow,  did  he  know  why  ?  Howard,  hav- 
ing been  used  to  consider  himself  of  more  importance  than 
any  other  member  of  the  social  circle,  was,  in  the  present  in- 
stance, too  much  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts,  and  plans, 
to  observe  that  there  was  much  amiss  with  others.  Having  in 
view  a  horseback  ride  to  the  Eyrie,  after  dinner,  he  thought 
that  meal  unusually  long  and  dull ;  wondered  why  his  sister 
laughed  so  much  at  her  own  speeches,  and  why  mother  was  so 
stiff  and  cold ;  felt  glad  that  father  entertained  his  chum  with 


CONTINUED    ARRIVALS.  235 

a  long  discourse  upon  timber  lands,  to  which  that  young  gen- 
tleman did  seriously  incline;  and,  finally,  when  the  ladies 
withdrew,  muttered  something  about  "  engagement,"  and  ran 
off  to  the  stables,  leaving  the  two  gentlemen  to  their  nuts  and 
wine. 

As  the  young  man  rode  up  the  mountain,  he  pictured  Viola 
to  himself;  fancying  how  she  would  look,  what  she  would  say, 
etc.  In  all  these  vagaries  of  the  imagination  she  seemed  so 
full  of  grace  and  beauty,  so  unlike  the  duller  realities  of  flesh 
and  blood,  that  at  the  door  he  stayed  his  hand,  fearing  to  dis- 
sipate his  visions  by  a  reality  less  lovely. 

Radiant  and  beautiful  Viola !  When  she  did  appear,  her 
lover  was  transfixed  with  enchanted  surprise,  so  far  did  the 
warm,  breathing,  blushing,  smiling  woman  outcharm  his  dim 
ideal. 

The  Captain,  and  Walsingham,  welcomed  him  in  their  re- 
spective styles;  and  for  their  entertainment,  it  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed ;  inasmuch  as  he  addressed  himself  to  them,  he  dis- 
coursed most  learnedly,  fluently,  and  brilliantly  upon  various 
intellectual  achievements  within  college  precincts,  the  heroes 
of  which  would  certainly  electrify  the  world. 

"  Pshaw!"  said  the  Captain,  testily;  "  I've  seen  such  things 
in  my  time,  but  what  does  it  all  amount  to  ?  These  college 
bred  geniuses  are  like  hot-house  plants.  With  a  genial  atmo- 
sphere and  careful  culture  they  put  forth  shoots  and  blossoms 
wondrously;  but  transplanted  into  the  great  garden  of  the 
world,  they  dwindle,  wither,  and  are  at  last  overshadowed  by 
the  rank  growth  of  hardy  and  natural  vegetation.  If  I  had 
a  son,  sir,  I  would  not  shut  him  up  with  Grc«k  and  Latin  for 


236  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

twenty  years,  and  then  turn  him  loose  upon  the  great  striving 
world  to  seek  his  bread.  I  would  let  his  youth,  be  an  appren- 
ticeship to  the  battle  of  life.  He  should  struggle  up  to  man- 
hood as  he  must  struggle  through  it,  becoming  stronger,  with 
striving,  and  growing  higher,  as  competitors  hedged  him  in." 

"But,  Captain,"  argued  the  young  man,  "th«  world  is 
filled  with  maturity,  experience,  and  wisdom ;  would  you  bid 
the  untried  energies  of  youth  cope  with  these?  The  dis- 
couragements of  an  unequal  contest  palsy  our  best  energies. 
The  college  is  an  intellectual  arena,  where  the  athlete  meet 
on  fair  and  equal  terms.  The  student's  is  a  life  of  competi- 
tion ;  and  he  who  would  triumph  in  the  contest  must  put 
forth  all  his  mental  strength." 

"  Pshaw  !  the  forest  is  filled  with  oaks,  yet  the  indomitable 
vine  clambers  on  their  shoulders  to  the  sunlight.  What  are 
your  college  contests  on  visionary  battle-fields  ?  Ye  are  child- 
ren of  the  earth,  and  like  your  great  elder  brother  can  only 
grow  strong  when  your  feet  are  planted  on  her  bosom." 

"  Walsingham,  to  the  rescue !"  cried  the  young  champion, 
laughing,  <l  and  vindicate  your  alma  mater." 

11  Come  forward,  Arthur  Walsingham,  that  I  may  show  this 
young  man  a  living  illustration  of  what  I  have  said.  There, 
is  a  man,  who  was  the  pride  of  his  class,  and  for  whom  the 
greatest  honours  of  the  world  were  predicted ;  yet  he  sits  by 
his  fireside  to-night,  with  no  more  reputation  than  those  stupid 
citizens  who  never  felt  the  glow  of  ambition  or  the  throes  of 
genius." 

"  Can  it  be  possible  you  lo  not  know  ?     But  I  forget ;  you 


CONTINUED    ARRIVALS.  237 

have  been  long  upon  the  seas,  and  Mr.  Walsingham  has  been 
too  modest  to  tell  you." 

"  Tell  me  what  ?" 

"That  he  is  one  of  the  most  distinguished  men  in  the 
country,  sir." 

"  Who  ?     Arthur  Walsingham  !" 

"  By  George,  sir,  I  am  proud  to  be  the  first  to  tell  you ! 
You  should  hear  our  professors  talk  of  him  !  Why,  the  sci- 
entific world  is  mad  about  his  books.  They  are  considered 
of  the  greatest  practical  value." 

A  slight  flush  mantled  the  silent  scholar's  face  as  he  turned 
to  look  at  Viola.  Her  eyes  met  his  with  such  a  kindling  and 
exultant  glance  as  thrilled  him  to  the  soul  with  a  strange 
triumph. 

She  would  be  proud  of  him !  She  would  value  the  fame 
which  had  crowned  his  nights  of  vigil  and  days  of  labour. 

She  might  one  day  glory  in  the  knowledge  that  the  man 
whom  the  world  honoured  had  laid  his  great  heart  at  her  feet. 

"  Hang  your  modesty  !"  cried  the  Captain,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  as  he  wrung  the  hand  of  Walsingham ;  "  why  couldn't 
you  tell  me  this  ?" 

"  How  could  I  pronounce  myself  a  man  of  reputation,  bro- 
ther ?  Fame  must  announce  itself.  When  I  make  a  noise 
in  the  world  you  will  hear  it." 

"  Come  along,  come  along  !"  said  the  excited  Captain,  going 
to  the  door.  "  Come  to  that  confounded  study  of  yours,  and 
get  me  your  treatises  directly,  and  I'll  show  you  I  have  not 
forgotten  how  to  read.  Come,  I  say." 


288  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"Don't  trust  him  with  them  !"  cried  Viola  to  her  guardian. 
"  You  know,  he  said  if  we  showed  him  a  book  he  would 
burn  it." 

As  the  door  closed  upon  their  retreating  figures,  Howard 
congratulated  himself  upon  the  coup  de  main  by  which  he 
had  ended  an  argument,  disposed  of  both  brothers,  and  secured 
a  tete-a-tete  with  Viola.  "  Let  not  him  boast  that  putteth  on 
his  harness,  but  him  that  pv.tteth  it  off!" 


SUSPICIONS    OP    TREACHERY.  239 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

SUSPICIONS  OP  TREACHERY. 

"Ros.  His  very  hair  is  of  the  dissembling  colour. 
Oel.  Something  browner  than  Judas's." 

As  You  LIKE  IT. 

A  DANGEROUS  evening  was  that  which  Howard  passed  with 
the  lady  of  his  heart.  She  was  so  interesting  in  conversation, 
so  beautiful  when  silent,  that,  whether  she  spoke  or  listened, 
her  lover  admired  her  equally.  He  felt,  as  only  such  natures 
as  his  can  feel  under  the  influence  of  youthful  passion  j  and 
was  momentarily  on  the  point  of  revealing  his  feelings. 
Viola's  manner  was  so  kind  and  cordial,  it  almost  seemed  to 
invite  the  candour  in  which  he  longed  to  indulge. 

Walsingham  had  ordered  his  horse  to  the  stables  when  he 
arrived,  and  insisted  upon  his  spending  the  night  at  the 
Eyrie.  So,  when  the  silvery-tongued  or-molu  time-piece 
announced  that  the  most  delicious  evening  of  his  life  had 
ended,  and  it  was  now  proper  he  should  seek  his  chamber,  he 


2-10  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

bade  Viola  good-night,  as  though  pronouncing  a  benediction, 
and  walked  from  the  room,  as  Adam  might  have  turned  from 
Paradise,  had  he  been  driven  forth  companionless.  His  great- 
coat hung  in  the  hall,  and,  as  he  flung  it  over  his  arm,  he 
remembered  a  gift  in  its  pocket  for  Viola.  He  returned  at 
once  to  her,  and  presented  it  with  stammering  and  awkward- 
ness. 

I  am  not  sure  that  Viola  knew  what  she  said  in  reply.  She 
changed  colour,  and  was  as  confused  and  incoherent  as  him- 
self. The  donor  understood,  however,  that  she  would  decline 
his  gift  as  soon  as  she  could  find  words  sufficiently  gracious  for 
the  ungracious  act.  He  deprecated  her  refusal  with — 

"  You  are  so  associated  with  my  mother  and  sister,  that  in 
making  such  selections  as  I  thought  would  please  them,  I 
could  not  help  including  you.  I  hope  you  will  not,  by  refus- 
ing my  gift,  make  me  feel  that  I  have  taken  a  liberty." 

"  You  are  very  good,"  said  Viola,  "  but — " 

"  Nay,  listen  to  me  first.  It  is  a  cherished  wish  of  mine 
that  you  should  possess  some  trifle  that  may  speak  of  me 
when  absent.  Something  that  may  stand  like  a  sentinel  by 
your  side  and  guard  your  thoughts,  bringing  them  back  to  me 
when  they  would  wander." 

Viola  bit  her  lip,  as  she  bent  over  the  exquisite  ebony 
work-box  inlaid  with  silver. 

"I  do  not  require  such  mementos  of  my  friends.  This  is 
very  beautiful — too  beautiful  for  such  a  sad  idler  as  I  am 
Give  it  to  Helen,  who  will  make  better  use  of  it." 

"  You  refuse  my  gift !"  said  he,  bitterly. 


SUSPICIONS    OF    TREACHERY.  241 

"  Nay,  Howard/'  she  said,  recovering  her  winning  manner, 
"  I  will  not  suffer  you  to  be  offended.  Give  me  a  book  that 
we  have  read  together ;  a  flower  that  we  have  mutually  ad- 
mired, and  I  will  treasure  it  as  the  gift  of  a  valued  friend.  It 
will  speak  more  eloquently  of  you,  than  this  faithless  messenger, 
which  is  too  beautiful  to  suggest  anything  beyond  its  own 
exquisite  self.  Besides,  what  have  we  in  common  with  a 
work-box  ?" 

"  Viola,  you  mock  me  I"  exclaimed  the  half  mollified  lover. 
"  Why  will  you  not  treat  me  with  candour  ?" 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  would  like  to  do,  if  I  dared !" 
she  said,  laughing. 

More  offended  than  ever,  he  walked  to  the  window  and 
gazed  savagely  at  the  reflection  of  himself  in  the  panes. 

Viola  watched  her  sulking  lover,  first  with  a  smile,  then  a 
frown,  and  lastly  with  a  grave  perplexed  air.  Finally,  with 
a  sudden  resolution,  she  spoke  : — 

"  The  promptitude  with  which  you  take  offence,  discourages 
candour ;  yet  I  will  speak  frankly  to  you,  as  to  a  friend  and 
brother,  beseeching  a  patient  hearing." 

Struck  by  the  grave,  kind  confidence  of  her  tones,  he  turned 
from  the  window  to  listen,  and  she  proceeded: — 

"  Candidly,  then,  I  do  not  accept  this  costly  gift  from  you, 
because  I  fear  to  offend  against  the  proprieties  of  life.  Nay, 
be  patient !  I  have  never  had  a  mother  to  teach  me  these  : 
my  own  woman's  instinct,  and  the  example  of  your  dear 
mother,  have  been  my  only  guides.  If  I  am  too  fastidious, 
rejoice,  as  a  true  friend  should,  that  'tis  on  that  extreme,  I  err. 
21 


242  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

Believe  me,  Howard"  (and  she  gave  him  her  hand,  and  smiled 
frankly  in  his  face),  "  I  am  truly  grateful  for  your  remem- 
brance of  me,  and  I  do  not  need  a  prompter  to  bring  you  to 
my  mind.  Now  are  we  friends  ?" 

Itjjjras  not  in  adamant  to  resist  her !  He  was  charmed  by 
the  simplicity  and  apparent  candour  of  this  half  explanation, 
half  appeal.  "  I  would  not  have  you  other  than  you  are,"  he 
said,  "  yet  I  do  not  see  how  we  can  be  friends,  if  you  persist 
in  refusing  a  Christinas  token  from  me." 

"  I  will  not,  but  let  it  be  this;"  and  she  took  from  the  table 
his  copy  of  Corinne,  which  they  had  been  reading  together. 

Now,  of  all  Howard's  possessions,  this  was  the  most  valued, 
because  every  page  breathed  of  Viola.  Over  this  passage  she 
had  warmed  with  beautiful  enthusiasm,  and  paused  to  speak 
such  eloquent  comments  as  thrilled  her  lover's  heart.  To  that 
she  had  lent  "  the  beauty  of  her  voice ;"  and,  in  his  mind, 
voice  and  sentiment  were  for  ever  wedded.  The  book  was  elo- 
quent with  memories  of  Viola,  his  Corinne  ! 

A  glad  hope  flashed  on  his  heart  that  she,  too,  might  remem- 
ber with  tenderness  the  hours  they  had  spent  together  over 
those  enchanting  pages.  He  looked  at  her  with  sudden  scru- 
tiny as  she  stood  with  the  book  in  her  hand,  and  her  face 
upturned  to  his.  He  felt  convinced  that  she  could  not  but 
respond  to  his  passion ;  that  the  treasured  volume  must  have 
for  his  beloved,  associations  as  fond  as  his  own. 

His  face  kindled  with  this  belief,  as  he  exclaimed,  "  Will 
you  indeed  accept  it  ?.,  How  proud  shall  I  be  to  surrender  to 
you  one  of  my  greatest  treasures!"  As  he  stood  by  her  side, 


SUSPICIONS    OP    TREACHERY.  243 

flushed  with  pleasure,  eager  to  say  more,  yet  afraid  to  break 
the  delicious  spell,  he  perceived  on  the  small  fingers  that 
clasped  the  book,  the  sparkle  of  a  strange  jewel.  A  basilisk's 
eye  could  not  have  been  more  terrible  in  its  gleam,  for  he 
recognised  the  ring  as  one  of  Conway's  recent  purchases.  A 
gift  accepted  from  his  friend,  while  his  own  offering  had  been 
rejected ! 

With  the  frantic  impulse  of  one  mad  with  contending  pas- 
sions, he  snatched  Corinne  from  her  hand,  and,  flinging  it  in 
the  fire,  rushed  to  the  stables  for  his  horse. 

The  wildest  passions  possessed  him  as  he  galloped  down  the 
frozen  mountain.  The  revulsion,  from  an  ecstasy  of  hope,  to 
jealous  rage,  was  terrible.  He  muttered  to  the  winds  fierce 
imprecations  upon  the  faithless  Conway,  who  had  received  his 
confidence,  only  to  betray  it.  Who,  enjoying  his  friendship 
and  hospitality,  had  insinuated  himself  into  the  heart  of  his 
beloved.  And  Viola's  assumed  candour,  her  affected  fastidious- 
ness, and  fatal  beauty !  His  affections  were  suddenly  bank- 
rupt. He  had  lost  his  beloved ;  lost  his  friend ;  and  with 
them,  had  lost  trust  in  his  kind,  belief  in  goodness  or  truth. 
The  world  was  to  him  a  moral  chaos. 

A  storm  of  snow  was  falling,  and  the  night  was  dark,  but 
down  the  dangerous  mountain,  and  through  the  whitened  val- 
ley, galloped  the  impetuous  rider>  taking  a  strange  comfort  in 
whistling  wind  and  blinding  snow,  and  all  the  savage  accom- 
paniments of  winter's  night  and  dlorm. 

Over  the  bridge-  -past  his  own  gate^— through  the  slumber- 


244  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

ing  village — clattered  his  horse's  hoofs — on — on — no  matter 
whither ! 

His  fierceness  became  gradually  soothed  by  the  rugged  sym- 
pathies of  nature.  The  contention  of  elements  stormed  down 
the  tempest  in  his  soul  at  last ;  and,  exhausted  with  his  wild 
ride,  and  wilder  excitement,  he  turned  his  horse  toward  home, 
now  miles  away.  The  gray  of  morning  looked  through  the 
falling  flakes  as  he  drew  his  rein  at  his  own  door.  Reaction 
is  the  handmaid  of  passion ;  and,  when  he  threw  his  storm- 
beaten,  storm-racked  frame  upon  his  couch,  a  repose  came 
over  him  as  absolute  as  death. 

Howard  had  always  loved  with  confidence.  Never  having 
been  thwarted,  the  possibility  of  disappointment  had  never 
seriously  presented  itself  to  his  mind.  Love  like  his,  he 
argued,  must  command  a  response.  When  he  awoke  with  a 
heavy  and  dull  consciousness  of  distress,  these  feelings  again 
possessed  him,  and  reasoned  against  his  new  convictions.  She 
who  had  been  so  well  beloved,  must  love  in  return.  Nor  would 
Cola,  light,  fearless,  and  unreflecting  as  he  was,  dare  to  tam- 
per with  the  affections  of  Viola.  He  love  her  !  He  who  was 
.  in  love  with  every  new  moon,  and  attracted  by  any  novel  grace ! 
Could  his  paltry,  fickle,  fleeting  fancies  defeat  the  fixed  pur- 
pose and  love  of  a  lifetime  ?  It  was  too  monstrous  for  belief, 
and  there  must  be  some  solution  of  the  circumstances  that  had 
so  moved  him.  Perhaps — oh,  flattering  suggestion  of  hope  ! — 
perhaps  she  had  accepted^Cola's  gift,  knowing  it  to  be  the 
'simple  offering  of  friendship,  and  hesitated  to  receive  his  own, 


SUSPICIONS    OF    TREACHERY.  245 

with  a  delicate  and  maidenly  consciousness  that  it  was  the 
token  of  a  deeper  passion. 

This  hope  grew  into  conviction  when  he  again  saw  Viola. 
She  came  through  all  the  storm  with  Walsingham,  to  dine  with 
them  that  day. 

"  You  did  not  expect  me,  did  you  ?"  she  said,  shaking  her 
damp  ringlets.  "  The  gentlemen  almost  exercised  compulsion 
to  keep  me  at  home ;  but  I  was  sick  to  see  you,  Helen,  so  in 
spite  of  difficulties,  here  I  am." 

Howard  glanced  at  the  white  hands  wringing  the  moisture 
from  her  hair,  and  saw  that  the  ring  was  not  there.  With  a 
sudden  impulse  of  repentance  he  offered  her  his  hand,  in- 
quiring, "  What  greeting  have  you  for  me,  Viola?" 

"  Such  as  you  deserve,"  she  answered,  laying  her  hand  in 
his,  with  a  smile  so  bright  that  he  felt  she  could  not  estimate 
his  deserts  as  small,  while  bestowing  such  guerdon. 

The  storm  grew  furious,  turning  first  to  sleet,  and  afterward 
to  rain,  rendering  Viola's  return  impossible.  Her  presence 
was  acceptable  to  all ;  even  Helen  feeling  that  it  destroyed  the 
constraint  of  their  awkward  family  party.  To  Howard  she 
was  so  kind  and  conciliatory  that  he  felt  himself  to  be  for- 
given ;  and  giving  the  most  favourable  interpretation  to  her 
manner,  this  sanguine  lover  abandoned  himself  to  the  intoxi- 
cation of  her  presence. 

In  the  mean  time  the  placid  Cola,  undisturbed  by  Howard's 

monopoly  of  Viola's  society,  seemed  quite  content  with  Helen's. 

He  told  stories,  recited  poetry,  and  perpetrated  waggeries  for 

her  entcrtainneut,  to  all  of  which  she  did  most  gravely  incline. 

21* 


246  EROS     AND     ANTE  ROB, 

He  sang  songs,  among  which  may  be  named,  "  How  happy 
could  I  be  with  either;"  and,  something  like  "  When  the  one 
we  love  is  away." 

At  the  conclusion  of  these  appropriate  selections  he  was 
somewhat  abashed  to  find  Miss  Helen  apparently  absorbed  iu 
the  last  Annual ;  but  he  quickly  rallied,  and  importuned  her 
for  a  song.  She  laid  aside  her  book,  and  with  a  cold,  grave  air 
took  her  seat  at  the  instrument,  while  he  heaped  coals  of  fire 
upon  her  head  by  the  devotion  of  his  attention. 

Mrs.  Irving  and  Walsingham,  while  politely  discoursing 
together,  each  gave  an  observant  eye  toward  the  movements 
of  the  young  people.  The  partial  mother  saw  much  to  modify 
her  displeasure  at  Cola.  She  persuaded  herself  that  whatever 
his  offences  might  have  been,  he  was  at  least  sincere  in  his 
love  for  her  daughter.  Howard's  feelings  toward  Viola  were 
too  apparent  to  admit  of  doubt,  and  it  could  not  be  possible, 
she  thought,  for  that  or  any  other  young  lady  to  regard  him 
with  indifference,  so  that  however  entangled  and  confused  the 
affairs  of  these  young  people  might  be,  she  hoped  they  were 
slowly  unravelling  themselves  to  a  satisfactory  denouement. 
Walsingham's  convictions  were  somewhat  like  her  own,  but 
less  agreeable.  He  observed,  -with  grave  displeasure,  the  in- 
difference of  Cola  to  his  beautiful  ward,  and  his  attentions  to 
Helen  j  and  he  felt  that  this  light,  trifling,  unstable  boy  was 
incapable  of  estimating  the  value  of  the  pearl  he  had  won. 

In  his  new  character  of  Viola's  lover,  Walsingham  observed 
him  with  closer  scrutiny,  and  he  felt  a  pang  as  unselfish  as  it 


SUSPICIONS    OF    TREACHERY.  247 

was  poignant,  that  a  high-spirited  nature,  such  as  hers,  should 
have  fastened  its  affections  upon  a  man  like  Conway. 

He  was  brilliant,  hut  superficial,  and  mentally  inferior  to  the 
woman  who  loved  him.  He  watched  the  play  of  bright  intel- 
ligence and  quick  emotion  upon  Viola's  face,  and  wondered  if 
she  with  her  gifts,  her  cultivation,  and  her  devotion,  was  des- 
tined for  nothing  better  than  to  be  the  toy  of  this  boy ! 

He  shook  his  head  sadly,  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  thought 
how  men,  with  the  attributes  of  gods,  might  refresh  their 
great  hearts  in  the  inspiration  of  her  presence,  and  go  forth 
strengthened  for  titanic  effort.  How  worthy  was  she  to 
awaken  a  softer  passion  in  nobler  natures,  enamoured  with  the 
majesty  of  science,  whose  labours  in  rifting  new  and  precious 
truths  from  out  the  darkness  of  ages,  might  find,  in  affection 
like  hers,  reward.  Men  through  whose  love,  her  name  might 
bocoioe  immortal.  Or  how,  enshrined  amid  the  ever  sounding 
music  of  some  poet  heart,  her  beauty,  grace,  and  love,  might 
glide  on  melodious  numbers  to  later  ages,  living  in  human 
memories,  when  that  beauty  and  grace  were  mouldering,  and 
that  love  had  become  translated. 

But,  alas  !  far  away  from  companionship  like  this,  her 
obscure  path  would  lead,  amid  the  baleful  solitude  of  an 
unequal  union;  amid  human  tribulations,  which  she  must 
meet  with  such  strength  as  God  gave  her;  sustaining,  with 
woman's  courage,  her  woman's  weakness,  and  the  unstable 
heart  of  him  who  should  have  been  her  counsellor,  guide,  and 
comforter. 

"  Oh  beloved !  for  thy  sake,  not  for  mine,  doth  my  soul 


248  EKOS    AND    ANTEROS. 

rebel !  How  dare  I  sit  supinely  watching  this  fate  entoil 
thee,"  he  thought,  "nor  make  one  effort  to  break  the  un- 
natural spell  ?"  And  again,  "She  is  blinded,  dazzled,  by  this 
impish  boy  !  Be  it  mine  to  anoint  her  eyes  with  truth  !" 

But  when  he  looked  at  her  serene  beauty,  he  wondered  where 
he  should  gather  courage  to  disturb  her  peace. 


RAGE    AND    HATE.  249 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

EAGE  AND  HATE. 

"  But  this,  denoted  a  foregone  conclusion." 

SHAKSPEAEE. 

RAIN  !  rain  !  rain  !  The  next  day,  and  the  next,  and  next. 
"  I  think,"  said  Cola,  as  he  looked  from  the  window  one  morn- 
ing, "  I  think  it  will  be  clear  at  noon." 

"  So  you  have  been  saying  for  three  days,  Sir  Hopeful !" 

"  So  I  intend  to  say,  every  day,  until  the  result  shows  me  a 
prophet." 

It  was  not  necessary  to  predict  this  again,  as  at  noonday  the 
rain  ceased,  the  lowering  clouds  parted  and  rolled  heavily  away 
like  scrolls  of  lead. 

The  Captain  came  down  from  the  Eyrie  to  inquire  after  the 
delicate  and  consistent  lady,  who  would  not  permit  a  storm  to 
keep  her  at  home,  but  allowed  it  to  interfere  with  her  return- 
ing. He  reported  that,  in  consequence  of  the  protracted  rain 


250  JEJROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

and  melting  snows,  the  river  was  rising,  and  there  was  every 
appearance  of  a  flood. 

"  Then  I  must  mount,  and  ride  to  the  creek  timber-lands, 
if  I  would  prevent  some  thousands  from  melting  like  the 
snow,"  said  Mr.  Irving,  rising  with  energy.  "  Ring,  Howard, 
for  my  horse  to  be  saddled  instantly.  Yet  stay !"  He  looked 
at  his  wife  with  a  dubious  countenance,  and  throwing  himself 
into  his  chair  again,  muttered — 

"  What  matter  for  that  ?  let  it  go." 

"  Howard,"  said  Mrs.  Irving,  "  do  you  not  see  your  father 
is  unwell  ?  Show  him  that  he  has  a  son  to  relieve  him  of  his 
burdens." 

"  Let  me  go,  father !"  cried  the  young  man.  "  I  know  as 
well  as  you  do  how  to  rescue  timber  from  the  freshet." 

"  And  I'll  go,  too,"  volunteered  Cola,  promptly. 

Mr.  Irving  looked  dubiously  from  his  wife  to  the  young 
men. 

"  Well,  go,  and  do  your  best,"  said  he  at  length.  "  It  is 
important  business,  youngsters ;  but  I  think  I  may  depend  on 
you.  Start  at  once — ride  fast — ride  all  night.  When  you 
approach  the  ground,  engage  all  the  men  and  teams  to  follow 
you,  at  any  price.  Upon  the  success  of  your  efforts  depends 
thousands." 

"  Never  fear,  father,"  cried  Howard.  "  All  that  men  can 
do,  we  will.  I  will  go  at  OACC  to  the  stable  for  my  horse." 

"  And  send  round  one  for  me,"  said  Cola. 

The  horses  were  soon  at  the  door.    Howard  ran  up  the  steps 


EAQE    AND    HATE.  251 

to  summon  Conway,  when  through  the  side  light  of  the  hall 
door  he  saw — Oh  despair !  what  did  he  see  ? 

Viola,  standing  on  the  stairway  like  a  goddess  on  her 
pedestal,  and  Conway  with  sacrilegious  arm  encircling  her 
waist,  and  laughing  face  upturned  to  hers.  She  stooped  over 
him  with  a  fond  smile,  while  her  heavy  curls  lay  mingled  with 
his  !  Howard,  with  an  enraged  malediction,  threw  open  the 
door. 

"  You're  ready,  are  you  ?"  said  Cola  coolly,  as  Viola  retreated 
up  the  stairs.  «  By,  by,  Viola  !" 

"Grood-bye,"  she  said,  "and  take  good  care  of — each 
other." 

"  Take  good  care  of  him  for  her  sake  !"  thought  Howard, 
as  they  splashed  through  slush  and  mud,  and  he  felt  the  spirit 
of  Cain  in  his  bosom. 

He  was  false  and  faithless  then,  this  laughing  boy  whom  he 
had  loved  !  And  he  had  won  her  ! 

Their  road  lay  along  the  river,  and  the  facile  Cola  was  ex- 
cited, and  delighted,  with  the  grandeur  and  novelty  of  the 
breaking  up  of  ice.  "  Hark,  how  the  waters  groan  and  labour , 
and  how  the  ice  bursts  and  booms,  while  the  mountains  send 
back  a  sullen  reverberation  !  The  mighty  upheaving  element 
is  rending  her  fetters — see  !  Yon  solid  floor,  over  which  these 
horses  might  have  galloped  three  days  ago,  parts  and  yawns 
like  an  earthquake.  Now,  huge  masses  are  heaved  in  the  air ! 
now,  they  fall  over  upon  each  other,  piling  like  glaciers,  while 
the  waters  rage  and  roar  around  them.  Oh,  this  is  sublime !" 
and  the  gay  fellow  laughed  and  clapped  his  hands. 


252  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"  I  would  not  like  to  perish  in  that  cruel  element,"  he  re- 
sumed. "  Think  of  the  sudden,  choking,  gasping,  death ! 
The  violent  rushing  of  the  flood  in  eyes,  ears,  and  mouth, 
penetrating  through  every  avenue  of  sense,  forcing  the  soul 
out !  Ugh  !  its  awful,  and  chills  my  blood  to  think  of." 

Howard  made  no  reply — (indeed,  he  had  not  spoken  since 
their  ride  commenced)  and  Cola  rattled  on/  "  My  horror  of 
water  amounts  to  hydrophobia,  and  has  prevented  my  learning 
to  swim.  They  say  that  drowning  is  an  easy  death,  though  ! 
For  my  part  I  am  willing  to  believe  I  am  reserved  for  another 
end." 

"  A  rope's  end,"  growled  Howard,  savagely. 

Cola  laughed.  "  Your  familiar  has  power  over  you  to-night, 
my  bitter-sweet !  It's  very  well,  for  there  is  work  for  him. 
The  lumbermen  will  be  busy  with  hands  and  horses,  and  we 
will  have  difficulty  in  securing  the  aid  we  want.  Set  your 
indomitable  imp  to  devising  stratagems  for  the  emergency,  and 
don't  let  him  be  chary.  All  things  are  honourable  in  love  and 
war." 

"  A  sententious  maxim,  cloaking  defective  ethics,  is  fit  for 
your  .golden  rule,"  said  Howard. 

Con  way  looked  inquiringly  into  his  dark  scowling  face.  "  If 
I  was  not  used  to  your  moods  I  would  be  afraid  to  ride  alone 
with  you,"  he  said.  "  You  look  as  if  you  would  like  to  mur- 
der me !  I  don't  know  what  has  disturbed  you  to-night, 
but  I  do  know,  that,  if  I  were  to  repeat  to  you,  in  your  lucid 
moments,  all  that  you  say  in  the  madness  of  wrath,  you  would 


RAGE    AND    HATE.  253 

be  shocked  at  yourself.  It's  well  I  am  a  good-natured  fellow, 
whose  affectionate  forbearance" — 

"  Peace  !"  shouted  Howard,  sternly. 

The  babbling  boy  ceased  his  gibes,  and,  in  silence,  they  rode 
up  the  darkling  valley. 


254  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER   XXXlfl 

JEALOUSY  OP  YOUTH. 

"  Oh  Lord  !  metbought  what  pain  it  was  to  drown. 
What  dreadful  noise  of  water  in  mine  ears : 
What  sights  of  ugly  death  within  mine  eyes ! 
Methought  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  wrecks." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

"  I  AM  so  glad  I  came !"  said  Viola,  encircling  her  friend's 
waist  with  her  arm.  "  This  is  better  than  sitting  through 
these  stormy  holidays  at  home,  picturing  your  dear  parlour  so 
bright  and  warm,  and  hospitable,  and  wishing  I  could  pop  in 
to  share  your  merry  Christmas." 

"  It  is  duller  than  you  expected  it  would  be,  now  that  the 
boys,  as  mamma  calls  them,  are  gone,"  responded  Helen,  with 
a  sickly  smile. 

"  Yes,"  said  Viola,  quite  frankly.  "  What  a  merry  quar- 
tette we  make !  You  and  Howard,  Cola  and  I ;  but  I  have 
been  quite  happy,  nevertheless,  and,  indeed,  Helen,  I  believe 
I  am  always  happy.  Of  course,  when  surrounded  by  those  I 


JEALOUSY    OP    YOUTH.  255 

love,  I  am  most  so,  but  who  would  not  be  happy  under  such 
influences?  But  when  the  weather  is  dull,  and  provocative  of 
gloom,  and  I  sit  alone,  engaged  in  some  distasteful  occupation, 
sewing,  for  instance  (you  know  I  hate  to  sew),  my  heart  seems 
to  sing  in  my  breast.  I  sometimes  fear  this  preternatural  ela- 
tion may  be  the  harbinger  of  some  great  sorrow.  Do  you  ever 
feel  the  gladness  I  describe?" 

"  Never,"  sighed  poor  Helen. 

"  I  don't  think  you  do,"  said  Viola,  "  for  you  have  seemed 
sad  of  late,  darling ;  I  thought  that  the  coming  of  your  bro- 
ther and — and  Cola  would  arouse  you,  but  it  has  not  seemed 
to  do  so.  How  shall  I  inoculate  you  with  my  joy  ?" 

11  You!  you  have  so  much  to  make  you  happy!"  sobbed 
poor  Helen,  throwing  herself  into  Viola's  arms. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  naughty,  ungrateful  little  Helen,  don't  say 
so !  Have  you  forgotten  that  you  are  the  most  tenderly  be- 
loved of  father,  mother,  and  brother,  while  I — /  am  alone  ! 
— How  strangely,  yet  justly,  are  the  gifts  of  Providence 
divided  !  You,  favoured  child  !  have  all  that  the  yearning 
affections  of  humanity  most  prize,  while  I,  denied  the  usual 
objects  of  love,  and  sources  of  pleasure,  am  compensated  by 
the  endowment  of  a  contented,  thankful,  happy  heart." 

"  I  acknowledge  your  superiority,"  said  Helen,  with  a  dash 
of  her  brother's  bitterness,  as  she  disengaged  herself  from 
Viola's  embrace,  and  wiped  her  eyes.  "  You  have  every  per- 
sonal and  mental  gift." 

"  Nay,  Helen,  I  will  not  let  you  speak  so  to  me.  It  is  no 
merit  of  mine  that  I  am  happy,  for  I  am  not  so  without  a 


256  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

cause.  My  heart  is  overflowing  witt  a  secret,  Helen  j  I  have 
found  one  to  love  me." 

Helen  averted  her  face,  while  Viola  continued — 

"  I  have  feared,  lately,  that  you  did  not  like  him,  as  you 
used  to  do,  and  the  thought  distresses  me.  You  will  love  him 
for  my  sake,  will  you  not  ?  and  some  day  I  will  tell  you  all 
about  it.  It  is  a  wonderful  story  j  but  here  comes  Uncle  Cap- 
tain, who  hates  grave  looks  j  so  clear  your  brow,  and  smile." 

At  the  timber  grounds  all  was  commotion.  Men,  horses, 
oxen,  were  labouring  to  secure  the  newly-felled  and  valuable 
trees  upon  which  the  flood  was  steadily  advancing.  Howard 
directed  their  efforts,  and  toiled  himself  with  a  desperate 
energy,  which  doubtless  received  its  impetus  from  the  mental 
excitement  under  which  he  laboured. 

Cola,  to  whom  the  scene  was  novel  and  exciting,  aided  with 
the  zealous  and  ready  activity  of  youth,  often  pausing  to  sur- 
vey his  surroundings. 

The  magnificent  forest  seemed  to  his  lively  imagination  a 
vast  fane,  dedicated  to  solitude  by  former  ages,  and  now  in- 
vaded by  the  irreverent  feet  and  demolishing  hands  of  Mam- 
mon's votaries.  Huge  trunks  rose  upward  around  him,  beyond 
him,  and  beyond  each  other,  in  interminable  colonnade,  until 
lost  in  arching  branches  and  light  tracery  of  twigs.  The 
ground  was  covered  by  these  columns,  fallen  and  vacant  pe- 
destals, indicating  where  for  centuries  they  had  stood. 

Cola's  resentment,  always  short-lived,  was  lost  in  the  in- 
terest and  amazement  awakened  by  this  novel  scene.  With 
restored  good-humour  he  mingled  with  the  workmen,  lending 


JEALOUSY    OF    YOUTH.  257 

a  helping  hand  to  one,  talking  cheerily  with  another,  making 
piquant  and  amusing  observations  to  a  third,  until  their  stolid 
natures  warmed  toward  his  handsome,  laughing  face;  their 
secret  discontent  at  Howard's  imperiousness,  melted  under 
the  influence  of  his  frolic  mood,  and  the  forest  echoed  with  a 
rude,  yet  hearty  merriment,  that  seemed  to  give  an  impetus  to 
labour 

When,  at  last,  the  work  was  done,  and  their  horses'  bridles 
were  untied  from  the  trees  where  they  had  been  fastened, 
Cola  had  forgotten  that  Howard  had  given  him  offence ;  or 
only  remembered  to  excuse  it,  as  one  of  those  unaccountable 
glamours  that  occasionally  possessed  and  perverted  his  nature. 

As  Conway  rode  sometimes  beside,  sometimes  behind  him, 
listening  to  the  tumult  of  rushing  waters,  and  the  plash-plash  of 
horses'  hoofs,  his  genial  mood  chilled,  and  he  began  to  reflect 
(a  thing  which  the  poor  boy  did  but  seldom)  upon  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  last  week.  This  distasteful  mental  exer- 
cise resulted  in  a  conviction  that  the  festivities  at  Mrs.  Irving's 
would  have  been  more  complete  without  him.  He  grew  sad 
as  he  thought  that  there  was  no  home-welcome,  no  joyous 
domestic  reunion  for  him,  at  this  season  of  world-wide  rejoicing. 
Then,  with  a  flash  of  spirit,  he  resolved  that  his  unacceptable 
presence  should  not  intrude  upon  the  festivities  of  others,  and 
began  to  devise  an  ingenious  fable  of  certain  letters  just  re- 
ceived, requiring  his  instant  presence  in  Kamtschatka,  or  Bur- 
rampooter,  to  be  narrated  to  his  good  hostess  Mrs.  Irving,  to 
account  for  a  precipitate  departure.  Then,  this  innocent  youth, 
unconscious  of  his  grave  offences,  wondered  what  foul  fiend 
22* 


258  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

possessed  his  irascible  friend,  and  why  the  blushing  little 
Helen  had  grown  pale  as  a  mute  at  a  funeral,  and  responded 
to  his  gallant  speeches  with  demure,  discouraging  phraseology, 
and  red  eyes.  Her  eyes  had  grown  weak,  he  was  sure  of 
that ;  for  they  were  always  red  now,  and  he  used  to  think 
them  bright  as  Viola's  own.  Viola,  yes;  she  was  a  darling,  a 
trump !  always  cheerful,  smiling,  and  pleasant.  He  liked 
your  gay,  jolly-hearted  women,  whose  words  might  be  set  to 
merrie  music  and  sung  in  a  glee.  Thinking  of  glees,  there 
was  a  famous  one  out,  which  he  should  learn  to  sing  at  Tap- 
toes'  suppers.  The  fellows  would  always  have  him  sing,  and 
his  old  songs  were  regular  bores ;  and  forgetting  his  momentary 
mortification  and  sadness,  he  began,  with  musical  zeal,  to  hum 
the  new  air. 

While  this  medley  of  thought  passed  through  Cola's  mer- 
curial brain,  Howard  gave  himself  up  anew  to  rage,  and  hate. 
The  novelty,  grandeur,  and  beauty  of  recent  scenes  appealed 
to  a  preoccupied  mind,  and  failed  to  win  him  from  himself. 
The  activity  and  excitement  of  his  late  business  had  partially 
drawn  him  from  contemplation  of  his  wrongs ;  but  now,  the 
pressure  being  removed,  his  mind,  like  a  bent  sapling,  sprang 
back  to  its  original  attitude.  The  presence  of  Cola  exaspera- 
ted him;  he  thought  of  him  as  an  ungrateful  viper,  whom 
he  longed  to  shake  off,  and  crush  beneath  his  heel ;  and  so, 
they  reached  the  river. 

At  the  junction  of  the  stream  they  had  been  following,  with 
the  river,  a  mass  of  drift-wood  from  the  lumber  grounds  above 
had  collected.  Howard  observed,  entangled  with  loose  branches 


JEALOUSY    OF    YOUTH.  259 

and  logs,  a  small  skiff,  which  he  thought  belonged  to  one  of 
his  father's  men;  and  he  dismounted  nrith  the  intention  of 
rescuing  it  if  possible. 

Walking  out  from  log,  to  log,  to  where  the  boat  lay,  he 
essayed  to  draw  it  in,  but  it  was  too  firmly  wedged  for  him  to 
move  it. 

"  That  is  the  boat  poor  Hawley  was  lamenting,"  said  Cola, 
who  had  followed  him.  "  It  is  well  packed,  isn't-it  ?  You'll 
never  loosen  it  that  way,  let  me  show  you  how  to  manage  it ;" 
and  leaping  into  the  skiff,  with  a  long  pole  he  began  to  push 
away  from  the  accumulated  obstructions,  and  out  into  the 
stream. 

"  There  !  it  rides  easy  now ;  but  the  current  is  strong  here. 
Hawley  will  be  glad  to  get  his  boat  again. 

"  Peter  M'Trimetry 

Was  a  good  waterman ; 
Fal  dal,  diddle,  dal  de  day!" 

"  There,  now ;  why  don't  you  pull  at  the  bow,  while  I  push ; 
and  we  can  take  the  boat  around  the  drift,  to  shore." 

"  Curse  the  craft  and  its  freight,"  muttered  Howard,  as 
spurning  the  boat  with  his  foot,  he  impelled  it  into  the  stream. 
'Twas  but  a  slight,  impatient  movement,  and  the  young  man 
did  not  think  there  was  murder  in  it !  The  riotous  waters 
lifted  up  their  voices,  drowning  his  imprecation  with  wild 
acclaim. 

"  Howard,  for  Heaven's  sake  have  a  care,  or  your  impatience 
will  cost  me  dear !  Don't  you  see  I  am  drifting  farther  and 


260  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

farther,  into  the  current?  Here  is  a  rope  fastened  to  the  bow ; 
catch  it  when  I  throw  it  to  you,  and  pull  me  in." 

The  mad  young  man  (let  us  hope  he  was  mad),  folded  his 
arms  and  glared  sullenly  at  his  victim.  The  rope,  which  Cola 
threw,  fell  on  the  log  at  his  feet,  and  slowly  trailed  into  the 
turbid  water,  as  the  little  skiff  swept  downward — downward — 
faster — faster — and  whirled  into  the  turbulent  river. 

Fix  your  cruel  eyes  upon  your  victim,  Man  of  Wrath ! 
Fasten  on  your  seething  brain  the  picture  that  is  to  haunt  it 
ever  more  !  He  has  thrown  his  cap  aside  to  wipe  the  great 
drops  from  his  brow,  and  stands  with  long  curls  floating  in  the 
wind,  and  large  eyes  fixed  in  wondering  horror. 

His  arms  are  lifted  toward  you  in  supplication ;  and  thus  he 
drifts  out  upon  the  waste  of  waters,  and  into  the  thickly 
gathering  blackness  of  the  night,  leaving  his  image,  beautiful 
in  agony  as  a  young  Laocoon,  branded  on  your  memory. 

"  Cola  !  good  Cola  !  throw  me  the  rope  once  more  !  Oh 
heaven,  it  will  not  reach  me  now  !  Use  your  pole,  and  push 
toward  shore,  and  you  will  be  saved !  Oh,  'tis  too  short  to 
sound  the  depths  of  those  swollen  waters  !  God  forgive  me, 
there  is  no  hope,  and  I  have  murdered  him !" 

Ay,  call  on  God  for  forgiveness,  you,  who  could  not  forgive 
your  brother.  Gibber  your  unintelligible  expressions  of  late 
repentance,  and  remorse  without  fruit,  trusting  they  may  atone 
for  hate  and  murder ! 

But  see !  he  lifts  his  stricken  head,  and  shouts  once  more 
above  the  mocking  exultation  of  hurrying  waves.  "Dear 
Cola,  I'll  ride  for  help,  and  you  shall  yet  be  saved !  Let  not 


JEALOUSY    OP    YOUTH.  261 

your  courage  fail  you;"  and  mounting  his  steed,  he  galloped 
down  the  valley. 

The  mountain  river,  which  Cola  remembered,  gliding  like 
a  poem  through  music-haunted  shores,  was  now  a  vast  expanse 
of  devastating  waters.  He,  who  had  floated  over  its  placid 
bosom  beneath  the  moonlit  skies  of  June,  singing  soft  love 
songs,  to  the  plash  of  oars,  and  murmur  of  waters,  was  now 
borne  down  to  terrible  destruction  by  the  aroused  and  angry 
flood. 

Its  breast  was  covered  with  spoil.  Stacks  of  hay,  wrecks 
of  houses,  timbers  of  fallen  bridges,  and  trees  uprooted  from 
their  forests,  by  the  might  of  wrestling  waters,  rushed  down- 
ward, endangering  the  frail  boat  in  which  his  life  was  ventured. 
Huge  masses  of  ice  came  crashing  and  grinding,  threatening 
to  crush,  like  an  egg  shell,  the  little  craft.  The  waves  leaped 
up  and  licked  its  side  hungrily,  then  sank  away,  roaring  like 
wolves  impatient  for  prey ;  while  the  horror  of  darkness  fast 
closed  over  all. 

The  weather  had  again  changed,  and  the  night  was  bitter 
cold.  He  had  not  felt  it  in  the  excitement  of  alarm ;  but  as 
his  blood  stagnated  in  hopelessness,  he  found  that  if  the  waters 
forbore  to  engulph  him,  he  should  perish  with  cold  ere  morning. 
•  He  could  no  longer  distinguish  the  shores,  yet  might  be 
near  them  :  might  be  drifting  into  some  friendly  eddy,  where 
a  deposit  of  firm  ice,  would  offer  lodgement  for  the  skiff  and 
bridge  his  way  to  shore.  But,  no;  far  off,  through  the  frosty 
air,  he  distinguishes  the  lights  of  a  village.  It  seems,  oh 
Heaven  !  h  w  distant ;  yet  he  knows  it  is  close  upon  the  shore. 


262  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

He  does  not  know  that  an  anxious  crowd  is  gathered  there, 
striving,  by  the  vain  light  of  tossing  flambeaux,  to  pierce 
thick  darkness,  and  discover  the  fated  man  :  that  words  of 
cheer  are  shouted  out  through  hard  hands,  eager  to  lend  their 
aid — words  of  kindly  cheer,  that  die  away  above  the  cruel 
waters  ere  they  reach  him ;  yet,  piercing  through  blackness, 
rise  up  to  Heaven,  and  are  placed  on  eternal  record  there  1 
He  does  not  know  this,  as  downward,  downward,  sweeps  the 
frail  boat,  upheld  amid  an  hundred  perils  in  the  hollow  of 
God's  hand.  But,  without  knowing,  he  watches  those  friendly 
lights  fading  in  distance,  and  feels  nearer  his  kind,  while  he 
can  see  them  shining.  He  pictures  calm  household  faces 
gathered  around  them,  with  books  or  needlework,  happily 
unconscious  of  the  strange  tragedy  transpiring  within  the 
reach  of  those  faint  taper  rays.  As  he  watches  them  they 
seem  like  the  stars,  calm  and  cold,  and  at  last  are  quenched 
in  distance,  leaving  him  alone  with  the  darkness,  and  his 
strange  fate. 

Another  village,  and  again  friendly  lights  gleam  over  the 
waters.  He  is  nearer  the  shore  this  time,  and  now  he  knows 
those  are  no  fireside  tapers,  but  huge  pine  torches,  hurried  to 
and  fro,  pressed  to  the  edge  of  the  dark  water,  and  held  aloft 
until  their  glare  throws  a  track  of  light  athwart  the  abysmal 
blackness.  He  knows  that  eager  hands  carry  them — that 
intense  excitement  prevails — that  human  sympathies  are  at 
work,  and  ingenious  brains  busy,  devising  schemes  for  his  deli- 
verance •  and  knowing  this,  tears  moisten  his  staring  eyeballs, 
and  his  chilled  heart  is  lifted  with  thanksgiving.  He  shouts 


JEALOUSY    OF    YOUTH.  263 

with  the  energy  of  hope,  which  is  stronger  than  despair,  and 
the  watchful,  waiting  throng,  hear  and  answer.  They  throw 
their  torches  far  out  into  the  river;  like  shooting  stars,  they 
flash  through  the  air,  reveal  dark  hurrying  objects  on  the 
rushi  ig  flood,  and  fall  hissing  and  quenched,  midway  between 
the  watching  crowd  and  the  poor  wretch  they  would  aid. 
Then  the  few  remaining  lights  die  away  up  the  shore,  and 
he  is  again  alone,  with  the  tears  of  thanksgiving  frozen  on 
his  face,  and  his  limbs  numb  with  cold. 

Life  is  dear,  and  with  a  determination  to  eke  out  its  bitter 
dregs,  he  beat  his  stiffened  arms  athwart  his  breast,  that  the 
stagnant  blood  might  pulse  more  freely  through  his  veins. 
He  does  not  think  he  will  die  yet !  He  has  grown  familiar 
with  the  horrors  of  this  awful  night,  and  begins  to  feel  quite 
safe  amid  the  raging  waters,  grinding  ice,  and  bitter  cold.  He 
thinks  there  is  great  hope  !  The  miracle  that  has  preserved 
his  life  thus  far  may  be  prolonged !  He  may  be  driven  out 
of  the  whirling  current,  and  lodged  among  driftwood  near  the 
shore.  There  is  a  bridge  below,  and  he  may  strike  the  pier, 
and  clamber  up  in  safety.  There  are  many  chances  of  escape ; 
this  hopeful  nature  believes,  but  the  throng  on  shore  know 
there  is  but  one — that  is  in  the  bridge. 

Although  ominous  whispers  are  heard,  impeaching  the  sta- 
bility of  those  stout  piers,  the  bridge  is  crowded.  There,  too, 
those  welcome  lights  glimmer  in  a  long  line,  like  lamps  in  a 
huge  gallery.  Ropes,  hanging  from  its  sides,  sway  in  the 
wind,  or  trail  in  the  flood ;  lanterns  are  suspended  almost  to 
the  water's  edge,  that  he  may  see,  and  grasp  with  sure  hand 


264  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

the  thread  upon  which  his  life  hangs.  All  that  human  inge- 
nuity can  do,  has  been  done,  to  aid  him  in  this  strange  extre- 
mity. 

He  nears  them,  and  a  great  shout  goes  up  as  they  perceive 
his  boat,  like  a  dark  speck,  on  the  water. 

How  the  sound  of  human  voices  thrills  him ! 

They  are  so  near  that  he  can  answer,  thus  holding  brief 
communion  with  his  kind.  Amid  a  tumult  of  directions  he 
grasps  at  the  nearest  rope.  A  mass  of  ice  turns  his  boat  aside, 
and  missing  it,  he  is  swept  on. 

There  are  ropes  pendent  from  the  other  side,  and  he  almost 
throws  himself  headlong  from  the  boat  to  seize  them ;  but  his 
stiffened  fingers  fail  him,  and  the  anxious  crowd  see  him 
emerge  from  beneath  the  bridge,  and  glide  downward,  on — 
on ! — 

They  throw  after  him  cloaks,  overcoats,  and  blankets,  that 
he  may  wrap  himself  from  the  cold,  but  say  to  one  another 
that  the  poor  fellow  will  not  need  them  long,  for  the  dam  is 
below,  where  his  boat  must  capsize,  and  this  protracted  agony 
end.  Others  answer,  that  the  dam  is  "  drowned  out,"  and 
can  do  no  harm,  but  that  he  must  perish  with  cold  before  he 
reaches  the  next  bridge,  which  is  twelve  miles  away. 

And,  praying  God  to  have  mercy  on  his  soul,  they  go  in 
groups  to  get  something  to  warm  them,  and  talk  the  matter 
over  by  the  light  pine  fires,  while  the  handsome  boy,  cut  off 
from  human  aid,  drifts  out  into  silence  and  solitude  again. 


REFLECTION    AND    REVELATION.  265 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

REFLECTION  AND  REVELATION. 

"  And  to  watch  you  sink  by  the  fireside  now 
Back  again,  as  you  mutely  sit, 
Musing  by  fire-light,  that  great  brow, 
And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it 
Yonder,  my  heart  knows  how  !" 

BROWNING. 

How  merrily  blaze  the  logs  in  the  parlour  chimney  to-night ! 
How  brightly  burn  the  well-trimmed  lamps  !  The  curtains, 
how  rich  and  warm.  The  mirrors,  how  burnished  and  gleam- 
ing, as  they  show  to  each  other,  in  multiplied  reflection,  blazo 
after  blaze,  and  lamp  upon  lamp ;  inviting  the  beholder  to  be- 
lieve himself  in  some  interminable  hall,  illuminated  by  end- 
less ranges  of  lights  and  fires  ! 

The  sofas  seem  more  luxurious  than  we  ever  before  thought 
them,  and  the  room  more  cosy  and  comfortable.  Viola  chatters 
pleasantly  and  prettily,  and  Helen  responds  with  a  languid  smile. 
Wulsingham  discourses  calm  philosophies,  while  Mrs.  Irving, 


266  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

from  her  chair  beside  him,  half-musing,  half-listening,  with 
head  upon  her  hand,  looks  kindly  in  his  face,  in  sweet  content. 
The  Captain  tells  the  stories  of  a  traveller,  in  his  jolly  hearty 
way,  but  does  not  disturb  Mr.  Irving,  who,  reposing  apart  in 
his  luxurious  chair,  seems  enjoying  the  most  composing  of 
winter  naps. 

For,  is  not  this  the  Christmas  time,  when,  centuries  ago,  the 
blackness  of  night  was  rifted  by  the  glistening  of  angels' 
wings,  stooping  to  earth  on  heavenly  errands  ?  And,  in  the 
ear  of  our  ancient  mother,  slumbering  heavily  beneath  mani- 
fold burdens,  they  sang,  "  Peace  on  earth,  good-will  toward 
men." 

And  so  in  this,  and  all  Christian  households,  there  is  peace 
to-night.  So,  in  every  human  heart,  there  should  be  good- 
will. 

No  thought  of  anguish,  or  dread,  intrudes  upon  this  calm 
circle,  for  the  despairing  cry,  this  moment,  bursting  from  the 
lips  of  the  young  victim,  rings,  on  the  frosty  night,  miles  and 
miles  away.  But  the  shriek  of  the  relentless  wind  penetrates 
through  barred  shutter,  and  crystal  casement,  and  crimson 
hanging,  silencing  the  soft  murmur  of  conversation. 

A  shadow  crossed  the  mother's  face,  even  in  that  brilliant 
room,  where  lights  were  so  multiplied,  there  seemed  no  hiding- 
place  for  shadows. 

"  I  wonder  where  the  poor  boys  are,  and  how  they  fare  ?" 

Then  those  merry  and  fanciful  girls  beguiled  her  anxiety  by 
describing  some  poor  woodman's  cabin,  now  sheltering  them  ; 
with  unplastcred  walls  of  logs,  and  broken  ladder,  by  which 


REFLECTION    AND    REVELATION.  267 

they  ascended  to  rude  cots  beneath  the  roof;  where,  rapt  in 
skins,  they  snugly  lay,  watching,  through  crannies,  the  glim- 
mer of  distant  stars. 

Walsingham  told  that  beautiful  fable  of  the  magic  mirror, 
whose  depths  revealed  the  forms  of  the  absent  to  the  gaze  of 
yearning  love,  and  repeated  the  ballad  of  "  Geraldine." 

"Look  I"  exclaimed  Helen,  suddenly  pointing  to  the  mirror 
near  her  mother,  and  all  eyes  instantly  turned  upon  it. 

Mrt.  Irving  uttered  an  exclamation,  and  buried  her  face 
with  her  hands. 

All  was  instant  confusion  !  Helen's  languor  was  lost  in  wild 
excitement;  Viola's  joyousness  gave  place  to  dread.  Mrs. 
Irving's  serene  content  was  succeeded  by  great  distress,  and 
Walsingham's  calmness  was  lost  in  surprise.  The  Captain, 
forgetting  his  hearty  jollity,  indulged  in  terse  expressions  of 
impatience,»while  Mr.  Irving,  disturbed  in  his  repose,  arose 
and  turned  toward  the  company,  revealing  a  livid  and  distorted 
face. 

All  gathered  around  the  magic  mirror,  and  stared  in  ita 
depths  for  the  solution  of  the  mysterious  disturbance;  but 
they  saw  only  their  own  frightened  faces  repeated  at  intervals 
between  the  interminable  lights,  and  so  multiplied  by  reflec- 
tion, and  counter-reflection,  as  to  look  like  a  horrified  mob  by 
torchlight. 

"  Oh,  mother !  what  did  you  see  ?"  sobbed  Helen.  "  I  only 
pointed  to  the  glass  that  you  might  see  how  the  fire  shone 
in  it." 

"  You  are  nervous  and  foolish,  child !"  said  Mrs.  Irving, 


268  EROS    AND    ANTEBOS. 

sternly.  I  saw  nothing  but  what  you  all  must  have  seen — that 
my  husband  is  very  ill." 

"  Papa  !     Where  has  he  gone  ?     Why  he  was  asleep  !" 

"  He  was  not  asleep.  Walsingham,  satisfy  these  children 
that  there  is  nothing  to  alarm  them,  while  I  look  after  my  hus- 
band. Go  to  bed,  girls,  as  soon  as  you  feel  composed.  Good- 
night." 

And  those  cold  mirrors,  glistening  with  fires  that  never 
warmed  them,  and  throwing  reflections  back  and  forth  like 
shuttlecocks,  had  not  revealed  in  their  mystic  depths  the  re- 
morseful horseman,  galloping  madly  down  the  frozen  valley — 
the  despairing  voyager,  afloat  upon  the  watery  waste  ! 

But,  if  their  shining  surfaces  had  darkened  to  the  blackness 
of  night  without,  and  the  events  transpiring,  miles  away,  had 
moved  in  awful  procession  athwart  the  gloom,  their  revelations 
could  not  have  been  more  fearful  or  startling,  than  that  which 
burst  upon  Mrs.  Irving,  when  she  turned  her  head  in  obe- 
dience to  her  daughter's  exclamation. 

She  was  seated  near  Walsingham,  whom  it  always  fell  to 
her  lot  to  entertain.  His  conversation  this  evening  harmonized 
with  her  own  thoughts,  and  gave  her  a  quiet  pleasure.  The 
fable  of  the  mirror  had  been  a  favourite  with  her  years  ago, 
and  she  lifted  her  eyes,  sparkling  with  pleasure,  to  Walsing- 
ham, as  he  narrated  a  story  which  revived  romantic  fancies 
of  her  own  youth. 

At  this  moment  Helen  exclaimed,  and,  looking  around,  her 
attention  was  arrested  by  her  husband.  With  his  back  to- 
ward her,  he  still  reclined  in  the  arm-chair,  where  she  had 


REFLECTION    AND    REVELATION.  269 

supposed  him  sleeping.  But  in  the  mirror  she  caught  the  re- 
flection of  his  face,  and  saw  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  search- 
ingly  upon  her  own,  with  an  expression  of  utter  anguish  that 
appalled  her. 

One  moment  of  tender  scrutiny,  and  the  expression  of  that 
beloved  face  was  analyzed. 

She  knew  now  what  had,  for  months,  weighed  on  her  hus- 
band's mind,  and,  with  the  shock  of  the  discovered  secret, 
her  heart  quaked ! 


28  * 


270  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

JEALOUSY   OF   MANHOOD. 

"  Let's  contend  no  more,  love, 
Strive  nor  weep ; 
All  be  as  before,  love, 

Only  sleep." 

BEOWNINQ. 

MRS.  IRVING  sat  in  her  chamber  awaiting  her  husband, 
and  recalling  a  thousand  trifles  corroborative  of  her  sudden 
conviction  that  he  was  jealous!  Jealous  of  Walsinghain. 
The  idea  was  both  horrible  and  absurd.  Amused  and  dis- 
tressed, she  laughed  and  wept  alternately,  and  felt  half-dis- 
posed to  succumb  to  these  conflicting  emotions  in  hysterics. 
Like  a  sensible  woman  as  she  was,  she  soon  subdued  her  ex- 
citement, and  proceeded  calmly  to  examine  the  circumstances 
which  had  placed  her  in  this  unpleasant  position,  and  devise 
the  readiest  means  of  dissipating  the  illusion  that  obscured 
her  husband's  judgment. 

She  knew  his  strong  nature,  and  deep  affection  for  her, 


JEALOUSY    OF    MANHOOD.  271 

ccmpled  with  a  certain  distrust  of  his  own  powers  of  pleasing, 
predisposed  him  to  this  fault.  She  remembered,  he  often 
listened  to  her  praises  of  Walsingham  with  uneasy  impatience, 
while  she  playfully  exaggerated  her  admiration  of  that  gentle- 
nian,  for  the  purpose  of  teasing  her  lord,  little  thinking  that 
the  seed  thus  carelessly  sown  would  bear  such  poison  fruit. 
She  remembered,  too,  that  he  had  avoided  Walsingham  of 
late,  often  with  positive  rudeness,  while  she  had  been  more  in 
his  society  than  was  customary,  considering  their  respective 
positions  of  matron  and  bachelor. 

In  this,  however,  she  felt  that  she  had  been  innocent.  Wal- 
singham, as  a  gentleman  of  leisure,  found  but  little  companion- 
ship among  men  around  him.  Those  of  his  own  age  were  too 
much  engrossed  by  the  active  pursuits  of  life,  to  seek  or  care 
for  social  intercourse ;  while  those  who  were  younger,  such  as 
Howard  and  Cola,  were  too  full  of  the  buoyant  extravagances 
of  youth  to  aiford  congenial  companionship  to  one  of  his 
matured  experiences.  The  society  of  ordinary  women  he 
found  vapid  and  childish,  while  that  of  Mrs.  Irving  he  relished. 
She  was  a  cultivated  and  sensible  woman  of  his  own  age  j  his 
equal  in  life's  experiences;  of  matured  judgment,  lively  sym- 
pathies, and  womanly  heart.  The  motherly  interest  she  had 
always  taken  in  Viola  was  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  them, 
and  it  was  his  custom  to  discuss  with  her  everything  pertain- 
ing to  that  young  lady's  welfare,  and  in  matters  of  doubt  or 
difficulty  be  guided  by  her  judicious  counsels. 

When  he  brought  his  ward  to  visit  her  friends,  it  was  the 
custom  of  the  young  people  to  wander  off  together,  leaving 


272  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

Mrs.  Irving  to  entertain  the  elder  guest.  During  these  fre- 
quent tete-a-te'tes  they  never  were  at  a  loss  for  pleasing  themes ; 
and  often,  when  they  sat  apart,  her  sweet  face  glowing  with 
eager  interest,  or  flashing  in  the  excitement  of  animated  con- 
versation, the  gloomy  hushand  would  scowl  grimly  at  the  door 
and  disappear 

Of  all  this  she  had  suddenly  become  conscious.  "How 
stupid,"  she  cried,  "  not  to  have  seen  it  sooner  !  and  yet  how 
could  I  conceive  myself  the  object  of  suspicions  so  prepos- 
terous?" Thinking  of  these  things,  she  waited  for  his  foot- 
step at  her  door,  but  he  did  not  come.  She  flew  down  stairs 
and  sought  him  through  the  house.  She  found  him  in  the 
library,  his  head  resting  on  his  hand,  and  his  whole  attitude 
bespeaking  deep  dejection. 

"  George  Irving,  George  Irving !  how  you  have  wronged 
your  little  wife  !"  was  her  salutation,  half  reproachful,  half 
tender,  as  she  threw  herself  upon  his  bosom. 

"  I  never  wronged  you,"  he  answered  heavily,  submitting 
to  her  caresses. 

"  Then  my  beloved,  honoured  husband  wrongs  himself." 

"  Don't,  Mary !  I  cannot  bear  it,"  he  cried.  Starting  up, 
and  putting  her  from  him,  he  paced  the  floor  in  strong  excite- 
ment. Suddenly  he  paused,  and  regarded  her  with  a  look 
of  profound  compassion. 

"  My  poor  child,  I  pity,  more  than  blame  you;  for  if  you 
love  this  man,  this  devil,  your  sufferings  must  be  your  punish- 
ment." 

The  accused  wife  made  no  reply,  for  she  felt  that  it  was  not 


JEALOUSY    OF    MANHOOD.  273 

yet  time.  Her  jealous  husband  must  relieve  himself  of  all 
that  had  been  festering  in  his  heart,  before  she  attempted  her 
vindication. 

"  I  have  seen  it,"  he  resumed,  "  from  the  moment  of  his 
return.  At  your  first  interview,  you  were  fascinated  by  him, 
and  lavished  such  encomiums  upon  him  as  I  had  never  heard 
applied  by  your  lips  to  mortal  man  before.  I  feared  then,  all 
that  has  befallen  since;  I  have  observed  your  growing  inti- 
macy in  silence ;  have  seen  you  blush  and  smile,  and  be  happy 
in  his  presence,  until  I  hoped  my  jealous  heart  would  burst ; 
and  yet  I  have  forborne  !" 

"  George,  George,  you  frighten  me  I" 

u  I  would  not  frighten  you.  As  I  live,  I  cannot  entertain 
an  emotion  of  wrath  against  you.  Grief — profound,  unuttera- 
ble grief,  is  all  that  I  can  feel.  I  am  too  unmanned  for  anger. 
Oh  God !  Am  I  thus  wrecked  !  Did  all  the  long,  bright, 
happy  years  which  you  have  blessed  to  me,  lead  but  to  this  ?" 
and  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  Yes,  I  have  wronged  you,  as  you  say,"  he  resumed. 
"  In  your  untried  girlhood,  before  your  heart  knew  itself,  I 
married  you ;  you,  whom  I  knew  to  be  too  good,  too  beautiful, 
to  mate  with  such  a  clod  as  I.  I  thought,  fool  that  I  was ! 
that  love  such  as  mine,  would  compensate  for  all  else ;  would 
insure  love  in  return. 

"  You  have  increased  in  experience  and  knowledge,  since 
then,  and  now,  as  a  refined,  accomplished  woman,  have  learned 
the  error  of  your  early  choice ;  while  I— I  have  lost  the  little 
grace  of  youth ;  have  centred  my  best  energies  in  the  dull  details 


274  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

of  a  business,  which  was  all  important  in  my  eyes,  because 
upon  its  success  depended  the  happiness  of  yourself  and  little 
ones  j  have  retrograded  intellectually,  until  I  am  unfit  to  mate 
with  you  !"  and  he  turned  aside,  to  hide  the  tears  which  strong 
emotion  forced  from  his  eyes. ' 

"  Nay,  do  not  speak  to  me  !  Do  I  not  know  that  the  con- 
versation of  this  intellectual  and  gifted  man  affords  you  the 
mental  aliment  which  my  society  can  never  give  ?  Do  I  not 
acknowledge  in  my  heart,  when  I  see  you  together,  that  you 
are  fitly  mated  ?  and  do  I  not  feel  that  if  a  bolt  from  heaven 
would  blot  me  from  existence,  it  would  be  in  mercy  to  us  all  T' 

"  George,  my  husband  !  you  who  have  known  me  for  a  life- 
time, what  have  you  ever  seen  in  me  that  can  justify  suspicions 
such  as  these  ?  How  can  you,  who  are  ever  just  to  others,  so 
misjudge  me  ?  Sinning  against  my  love,  and  outraging  my 
truth  by  accusations  of — of — what  shall  I  say  ?  tQ  what  do 
these  suspicions  tend  ?  Dishonour  ?" 

"  Dishonour !  No,  thank  God  !  I  know  your  rectitude  too 
well  for  that.  But  there  is  a  voice  that  charms  your  ear — a 
presence  that  refreshes  your  heart,  and — they  are  not  your 
husband's,  Mary." 

"  My  husband — " 

"  Your  plain,  dull  husband,  is  forgotten  in  this  dazzling 
present,  or  remembered  with  vague  regret.  You  are  scarcely 
conscious  of  this  yourself,  because  you  have  not  watched  your 
thoughts  or  analyzed  your  feelings,  as  I  have  done.  Unwitting- 
ly it  is,  that  your  heart  wavers  in  its  allegiance. 

"  But  why  should  I,  who  am  but  a  satyr  to  this  Hyperion, 


JKALOUSY    OF    MANHOOD.  279 

expect  to  retain  that  which  I  feel  myself  unworthy  to  inspire. 
Heaven  knows,  I  can  claim  nought  upon  my  own  merits,  while 
hoping  everything  from  long-established  rights,  and  early 
vows." 

He  seemed  so  humble  in  his  love  for  her,  yet  so  proud  in 
his  humility,  that  she  was  deeply  touched.  With  unhesitating 
ten'derness,  she  drew  his  hands  from  his  face,  and  looked  into 
his  troubled  eyes  with  such  a  clear  and  truthful  gaze,  that 
scales  seemed  to  fall  from  before  them. 

"  Look  at  me,  George,  and  learn  to  read  me  better !"  she 
said,  simply. 

He  looked  as  she  bade  him,  and  in  the  tender  depths  of  her 
upturned  eyes,  saw  his  own  image.  The  mists  that  had 
encompassed  his  judgment  vanished  before  the  sunshine  of 
her  glance;  and  looking  still  farther  down  through  those 
windows  of  the  soul,  he  saw  his  own  image  enshrined  in  her 
heart  of  hearts.  He  felt  that  she  was  his  truthful,  loving 
wife,  while  he  was  but  a  jealous  fool. 

"  Confess  that  you  have  never  known  how  well  your  wife 
loved  you,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  as  she  saw  conviction 
brightening  on  his  face. 

"  Mary,  you  are  an  angel,  and  I  a  poor,  unworthy,  jealous — " 

"  Hush  !"  she  said,  with  an  effort  at  playfulness,  which  soon 
declined  into  earnestness  as  she  proceeded:  "Hush,,,!  have 
listened  to  you  too  long,  and  now  it  is  my  turn  to  sffeak.  I 
must  make  my  manifesto  now,  that  you  and  I  may  be  spared 
a  recurrence  of  the  pain  we  have  suffered,  and  then — this 
subject  will  be  dropped  for  ever,  as  unworthy  of  us  both." 


276  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

The  wife  paused,  as  though  to  gather  courage,  and  when 
she  resumed,  her  voice  faltered  with  emotion. 

"  I  would  say  to  niy  husband  that  neither  the  remembrance 
of  his  '  rights'  or  my  obligations,  could  awaken  the  ardent, 
constant,  and  bounteous  affection  with  which  I  have  enriched 
his  daily  life.  My  love  has  been  the  spontaneous  tribute  of  a 
heart  impressed  by  the  nobility  of  his  nature. 

"  I  married,  as  you  say,  in  early  girlhood,  giving  you  the 
first  freshness  of  a  virgin  heart.     I  have  been  the  wife  of  a 
lifetime,  the  mother  of  your  children ;  have  been  encircled  by 
your  tried  affection  through  years  of  happiness,  sustained  by    ^ 
it  in  sorrow  and  trial,  until  my  love — the  love  of  an  old  wife,  '* 
George — has  so  fed  on  gratitude,  and  grown  with  time,  that 
it  exceeds  in  fondness  and  fervour  the  freshness  of  its  flushing, 
as  my  ripened  womanhood  transcends  my  youth. 

"Nay,  hear  me  to  the  end  !  I  have  associated  much  with 
this  man,  perhaps.  Your  own  unclouded  judgment  will  furnish 
you  with  reasons.  He  is,  as  you  say,  an  intellectual  man,  and 
as  such,  his  society  has  afforded  me  pleasure.  But  my  hus- 
band's wisdom,  his  justice,  his  generosity,  his  integrity — in 
short,  all  the  manly  virtues  I  admire  and  value  in  him,  are 
not  forgotten,  when  I  chance  to  enjoy  the  conversation  of 
another.  My  heart  is  not  thus  wanton.  You  spoke  of  mental 
aliment !  A  woman  requires  aliment  for  her  heart,  and  here 
I  feed  mine,"  and  she  threw  herself  upon  his  broad  breast 
weeping. 

"  Forgive  me."  he  whispered,  as  he  clasped  her  closely  in 


JEALOUSY    Or    MANHOOD.  277 

the  energy  of  remorseful  love.  "  Forgive  me,  for  I  have  been 
mad." 

"Your  affection  blinds  you,  George,  indeed  it  does/'  she 
said,  raising  her  tearful  eyes.  "  I  am  no  longer  young  and 
beautiful,  as  you  deem  me.  Our  children  are  almost  man  and 
woman,  now,  and  I  am  but  an  old  and  faded  wife — one  whose 
heart  reposes  calmly,  as  befits  her  years,  upon  the  anchor  in 
which  it  trusted  through  the  storms  of  passionate  youth." 

"  Ever  young,  ever  beautiful  to  me  !"  he  whispered. 

"  So  I  would  be,  to  you,"  she  answered,  with  an  arch  smile 
£.,  shining  through  her  tears;  "but  beware  how  you  believe  me 
attractive  to  others.  You  see  me  with  the  eyes  of  love  and 
memory — others  behold  me  as  I  am.  And  now,  love,  it  is 
late  !  All  the  world  is  asleep,  save  you  and  me,  who  have  been 
talking  like  sad  fools,  and  who — " 

"  Well,  speak  on  !" 

"  Who  are  old  enough  to  know  better." 


24 


278  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 


WHEN  the  unhappy  Howard  turned  from  the  supplicating 
6gure  of  his  friend,  it  was  with  the  purpose  of  saving  himself, 
sf  possible,  from  the  actual  guilt  of  murder.  The  life  of  this 
poor  waif  upon  the  stream,  was  to  him  priceless,  now.  He 
would  have  bought  it  with  his  own.  The  faults  of  the  poor 
boy  were  unremernbered.  The  wrongs,  upon  which  he  had  so 
fatally  brooded,  failed  to  comfort  his  remorse.  How  petty  and 
"pitiful  had  grown  those  aggravations,  which  a  few  hours  since 
festered  his  heart  with  a  sense  of  wrong,  and  poisoned  the 
kindly  current  of  his  thought.  They  had  changed  their 
aspect,  and  no  longer  seemed  wrongs  clamorous  for  vengeance, 
but  baleful  phantasies  that  had  assumed  a  certain  shape  to  lure 
him  to  destruction ;  and,  having  worked  their  evil,  threw  off 
disguise,  and,  with  mocking,  pursued  his  ruin.  How  horror 
nnd  remorse  goaded  him  through  the  night !  How,  ever  from 
the  angry  flood,  a  familiar  face,  with  its  bright  beauty  marred 
by  agony,  appealed  to  him  !  How,  through  thick  darkness,  he 


REMORSE.  279 

could  see  those  supplicating  arms  reach  vainly  after  him,  as  he 
galloped  down  the  valley  !  Night  could  not  cover  them  !  Time 
would  not  destroy  them  !  and  he  felt  that,  if  years  of  life  should 
lengthen  out  before  him,  they  would  walk  with  him  to  the  end,. 
Oh,  the  persistent  tyranny  of  thought,  that  breeds  such  faith- 
ful phantoms ! 

"  Tramp  !  tramp  !  along  the  shore  he  rode,"  startling  quiet 
sleepers  with  the  ring  of  hasty  hoofs — rousing  men  from  their 
warm  beds,  with  his  fearful  story — gathering  crowds  upon  the 
water's  edge  by-powerfully  eloquent  appeals — shouting  words 
of  encouragement  across  the  flood,  in  the  hope  that  the  poor 
voyager  might  hear,  and  know  that  he  was  labouring  for  his 
rescue— might  accord  forgiveness,  if  they  should  meet  no 
more — might  tell  of  his  late  repentance,  if  that  night  he 
should  bear  record  in  heaven ! 

With  a  sharpened  sense  he  had  heard^the  faint  halloo,  an- 
nouncing that  the  sufierer  still  lived,  amid  those  swamping  ice 
drifts  !  Had  first  discerned,-  by  the  light  of  suspended  lanterns, 
the  boat  drifting  toward  the  bridge  !  Had  guided  his  rope 
nearest  the  outstretched  hands !  (Oh  God !  they  were  still 
outstretched  !)  Had  seen,  by  the  flickering  light,  the  pale 
upturned  face,  with  the  old  look  of  agony ;  and  the  billows 
of  darkness  swept  over  all ! 

With  the  failure  of  this  hope  he  fainted,  and  was  borne 
from  the  bridge  byjpitying,  honest  folks,  whose  hearts  were 
touched  by  what  they  thought  the  faithful  love  of  brother- 
hood. 

When  restored  to  consciousness,  he  mounted  a  fresh  horse, 


280  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

and  galloped  on  to  the  next  bridge,  which  was  twelve  miles 
below.  It  was  the  bridge  of  the  Bluff.  He  and  Cola,  with 
Helen  and  Viola,  had  often  loitered  through  its  light  arches, 
and  leaned  over  its  balustrade,  watching  the  heavens  mirrored 
in  the  placid  depths  below.  His  errand  there  was  no  summer 
night's  saunter  now  !  The  life,  or  death,  of  the  gayest  of  their 
gay  party  hung  in  the  balance. 

His  old  love  for  the  youth  revived,  as  remembrances  of  their 
early  friendship  crowded  on  him.  Cola's  affection,  generosity, 
and  gentleness;  his  patience  with  his  own  evil  moods,  passed 
before  him.  His  weaknesses,  too,  now  sacred  as  are  the  faults 
of  a  dead  friend.  His  merry  quips,  and  gibes,  and  mockeries, 
how  they  rose  up  amid  the  horrors  of  the  night !  And  his 
love  for  Viola  !  How  natural  and  pardonable  it  seemed,  that 
in  the  bewilderment  of  passion  the  thoughtless  youth  should 
lose  the  strict  path  of  duty. 

Could  Tie  blame  this  lapse  from  honour,  who,  under  the 
same  fatal  influence,  had  stained  his  soul  with  crime  ?  For 
was  he  not  a  murderer  ?  From  the  time  that  frenzy  of  hate 
possessed  him,  to  tlfc  last  act  that  launched  the  victim  on  his 
fearful  voyage,  the  guilt  of  murder  had  been  in  his  heart. 
And  yet,  forsooth,  he  had  been  shocked,  outraged,  and  virtu- 
ously indignant  with  the  thoughtless  weakness  of  another  ! 
God  pity  him  in  his  blindness  !  God  pardon  them  both,  and  all 
who  grope  so  helplessly  'twixt  wrong  and  right,  with  glimpses 
of  the  pitfalls  in  a  neighbour's  path,  while  unconscious  of  the 
precipice  beside  their  own. 

The  early  grayness  of  morning  threw  a  sullen  twilight  over 


REMORSE.  281 

the  village  as  he  entered  it.  Inspired  with  new  hope  by  the 
coming  light,  and  prospect  of  friendly  co-operation,  he  knobked 
at  his  father's  door.  To  his  surprise  the  window  of  his  own 
room  was  thrown  up,  and  a  gruff  voice  hailed  him. 

"  Captain  Walsingham,  are  you  there  ?"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  my  lad,  and  are  you  there  ?  What  news  from  the 
timber  lands?" 

"  I  hope — I  hope  Viola  has  gone  home  !" 

"  No,  and  is  not  likely  to  go.     Don't  you  know  the  bridge 


With  a  heavy  groan  the  poor  fellow  sank  upon  the  piazza, 
and  the  alarmed  Captain  hastened  down  to  open  the  door. 

"  Call  my  father  !  Call  Walsingham  !  Alarm  the  town,  but 
do  not  waken  the  ladies.  Time  enough  for  them  to  know  by- 
and-by !  Cola  is  adrift  upon  the  river.  He  has  been  there  all 
night !" 

"  All  night !  Then,  young  man,  Cola  is  in  heaven  by  this 
time !"  said  the  Captain,  solemnly. 

"  No,  no !  Any  other  man  would  have  perished,  but  not  he. 
Gather  them  all,  and  away  to  the  river!" 

Among  the  first  upon  the  shore  came  Walsingham,  filled 
with  horror,  by  the  probable  fate  of  Conway.  He  had  wished 
the  tie  between  this  man,  and  Viola,  might  be  broken.  Lo  I 
the  finger  of  fate  was  raised  to  part  them,  and  his  generous 
nature  would,  if  possible,  reverse  the  decree.  If,  through  the 
conviction  of  her  reason,  or  the  instability  of  affection,  Viola 
could  relinquish  him,  he  would  rejoice.  But  not  by  the  sacri- 
fice of  a  bright  young  life,  mantling  with  promise,  or  by  the 
21* 


282  EROS     AND    ANTEEOS. 

violent  wrenching  of  her  constant  heart,  could  he  desire  them 
to  be  parted. 

She  loved  him.  This  knowledge,  which  had  bred  hate  and 
murder  in  Howard's  mind,  made  the  young  man's  life  seem 
doubly  precious  to  the  nobler  Walsingham.  It  was  not  merely 
a  human  life  at  stake,  but  the  life  in  which  the  happiness  of 
his  beloved  was  bound,  and  because  of  this,  it  was  in  the 
esteem  of  the  self-abnegating  man,  of  more  value  than  his 
own. 

Meantime  the  crowd  increased,  and  great  excitement  pre- 
yailed.  The  people  had  all  known  and  loved  the  merry,  hand- 
some fellow,  now  drifting  downward  to  death,  and  they  waited 
and  watched,  in  the  cold,  gray  dawning,  to  see  him  once  more 
— to  shout,  and  beckon,  and  wave  farewells,  and  waste  their 
impotent  sympathies  upon  him.  Howard  frantically  besought 
them  to  aid  him  in  some  mad  plan  of  rescue. 

"  My  poor  boy,"  said  his  father,  "  do  you  not  see  that  it  is 
hopeless  ?  A  score,  amid  those  ice-drifts,  would  be  as  helpless 
as  one !  Your  friend  is  in  a  maelstrom,  where  all  who  ven- 
ture to  approach  with  aid,  must  share  his  fate." 

"  There  is  the  only  shadow  of  a  hope  left,"  said  Walsing-« 
ham,  pointing  to  the  wreck  of  the  bridge. 

On  the  side  nearest  the  Bluff,  where  .the  current  was 
strongest,  the  structure  had  been  swept  away  like  a  cobweb; 
but  from  the  town  two  or  three  piers  still  arched  the  turbid 
water. 

"Not  even  the  shadow  of  a  hope,  there,"  said  Mr.  Irving, 
as  he  looked  at  the  splintered  timbers  of  the  ruin  projecting 


EE  MORSE.  283 

above  the  gulf.  "  The  boldest  man  here  will  not  venture  his 
life  upon  those  tottering  piers." 

"  Get  me  ropes/'  said  Walsinghain,  "  I  will  do  all  that  man 
may  do,  to  save  this  youth  !" 

"God  bless  you!"  cried  Howard,  grasping  his  hand;  "I 
will  go  with  you." 

"  This  is  madness,"  remonstrated  Mr.  Irving.  "  The 
remnant  of  the  bridge  will  be  swept  away  within  an  hour, 
and  you  be  lost  in  the  ruin.  Besides,  can  you  not  see  it  does 
not  reach  the  current  in  which  he  must  be  drifting?" 

"  I  see,"  said  Walsingham,  like  one  who  had  weighed  the 
chances,  "  I  see  the  odds  are  against  me,  but  there  is  a  slender 
possibility  of  rescue,  which  I  will  not  lose.  I  am  alone  in  the 
world,  and  can  afford  to  make  this  venture ;  but  you,  Howard, 
for  the  sake  of  mother  and  sister^  must  stay  on  shore." 

"  Just  so,  by  Jove  !  We  are  alone,  and  the  stake  is  ours  ! 
Stand  back,  young  man !"  and  'Captain  Walsingham,  with  a 
coil  of  rope  on  his  right  arm,  passed  his  left  through  his 
brother's,  and  arm  in  arm  the  two  walked  out  upon  the  groan 
ing  piers. 

"  Huzza  !  huzza  !  rescue  !  rescue  i"  shouted  the  admiring 
crowd ;  but  no  one  followed  the  devoted  pair. 

"  God  only  knows  how  terrible  is  my  stake  in  this  issue," 
said  Howard,  struggling  to  free  himself  from  his  father's 
restraining  hand.  "  If  he  perishes,  his  blood  is  on  my  head. 
Would  you  have  your  son  live  a  murderer  ?  Let  me  go!" 

"  Listen  to  reason  !"  answered  the  father,  to  his  miserable 
son.  "  I  will  go  in  your  stead.  I  offer  the  abilities  of  a  strong, 


284  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

cool  man,  iu  the  place  of  au  exhausted  arid  excited  one.  Do 
you  stay  here  for  their  sakes,  and  I  will  go." 

"  Reason  ?  There  is  awful  reason,  father,  in  what  I  do. 
If  Cola  is  lost — if  you  and  Walsingham  and  the  Captain  should 
perish  amid  those  falling  timbers,  and  I,  the  monstrous  cause 
of  these  calamities,  should  hear,  day  after  day,  the  loathsome 
burden  of  my  guilty  life,  beneath  the  reproachful  eyes  of  yon 
poor  women,  the  stones  would  cry  out  against  me.  The  very 
sunlight,  that  falls  in  benediction  upon  better  men,  would 
pierce  rue  with  arrows  of  cursing.  I  should  go  mad !  No — 
no  !  death  is  better !  Let  me  go !" 

He  seemed  mad  already.  His  eyes  were  wild,  his  face 
haggard,  and  his  voice  hoarse,  as  though  spent  with  raving : 
he  struggled  feebly  like  a  weary,  wilful  child.  His  father 
could  have  held  him  with  ease,  but  felt  there  was  danger  in 
thwarting  his  will. 

"  Be  it  so,  poor,  foolish  boy,"  he  said.  "  I  am  the  most 
efficient  man  of  the  two.  Those  who  venture  out  upon  that 
ruin  may  never  return ;  and  thou  and  I  cannot  both  be  spared. 
Go,  and  God  keep  you !" 

The  "Walsinghams  having  gained  the  extremity  of  the 
bridge,  were  busy  examining  their  position  and  making 
arrangements  for  the  rescue,  when  Walsingham  felt  a  light 
touch  on  his  arm.  Turning,  he  beheld  Viola.  Her  beautiful 
eyes  were  wildly  open,  and  her  lips  parted  with  terror  and 
surprise.  In  a  low,  frightened  whisper,  she  asked — 

"  Is  it  true  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  poor  little  one,  it  is  true — but  do  not  despair. 


REMORSE.  285 

We  will  save  him,  if  human  aid  can  avail  in  this  extremity — 
but  this  is  not  a  fit  place  for  you." 

•  "  Let  me  stay  with  you,"  said  she,  holding  both  hands  in 
hers,  and  looking  in  his  face  pleadingly. 

"You  cannot  aid  us  or  him,  and  there  is  danger  here. 
Do  not  remain,  Viola." 

"If  you  should  be  lost,  and  he — what  have  I  to  live  for? 
Let  me  stay  with  you." 

"  Poor  child,  do  you  then  love  him  so  ?  Trust  me,  rely 
upon  me — if  God  permits,  I  will  save  him-,  even  at  the  sacri- 
fice of  my  own  life ;  and  now,  as  a  token  of  your  confidence,  I 
ask  you  to  leave  us." 

She  walked  a  few  steps,  and,  turning,  paused  irresolute. 

"  My  little  girl  never  before  disobeyed  me." 

"  You  never  asked  me  to  leave  you  before,"  she  answered, 
touchingly.  "  What  is  there  upon  yonder  shore  for  me,  when 
you  are  here  ?  You,  whom  I  love  better  than  all  the  world — 
than  life !"  and  winding  her  arms  about  him,  she  laid  her 
head  upon  his  breast,  and  closed  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out 
sorrow.  _j 

And  sorrow  was  shut  out,  for  she  had  fainted ;  and  so  he 
bore  her  to  her  friends  on  shore. 

Meanwhile,  the  Captain,  with  his  telescope,  swept  the  river 
from  time  to  time,  examining  logs,  trees,  stumps,  wrecks  of 
every  description.  It  was  covered  with  these  trophies,  and 
the  old  sailor  observed  that  very  few  floated  near  them.  They 
were  carried  by  the  current  toward  the  opposite  shore. 


286  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"  Could  he  have  passed,  in  the  night?"  inquired  Walsing- 
haui,  after  some  time  had  been  spent  in  watching. 

Howard,  who  sat  at  his  feet  with  face  buried  in  his  cloak, 
answered,  "  No  !  I  have  ridden  all  night  in  advance  of  him." 

"Is  he  still  afloat,  think  you?" 

"  I  saw  him  last  at  the  bridge  above.  They  gave  me  a 
fresh  horse  there,  and  I  must  have  ridden  fast.  He  will  soon 
be  here  !  Yes,  he  will  soon  come  !"  and,  repeating  this  pro- 
mise to  himself,  the  young  man  covered  his  face  with  his  cloak 
again. 

"  Yes,  he  will  soon  come !"  said  the  Captain,  handing  the 
glass  to  his  brother.  "  Look  up  the  river,  beyond  the  large 
tree,  at  that  small  object — there  !  It  is  a  boat  with  a  man  in 
it !  There  is  but  one  human  being  afloat  upon  these  waters, 
thank  God !  House  yourself,  and  take  heart,  my  man,  he  is 
coming  I"  and  the  Captain  began  to  arrange  his  ropes,  and, 
breaking  off  the  balustrade,  tie  a  rail  to  the  end  of  each. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  good  fellow,  "  it  is  not  in  reason  to 
suppose  he  will  steer  at  once  for  the  pier  and  be  fished  up. 
Not  a  stick  or  log  has  done  that  since  we've  been  watching. 

»  o 

But  he  may  come  within  a  stone's  throw,  and  I  will  heave  this 
billet  of  wood  up  the  stream,  as  we  would  throw  a  harpoon. 
Please  Heaven,  he'll  catch  the  rope  and  be  towed  in." 

Upon  this  frail,  uncertain  chance,  did  that  life  depend  !  but 
God  saw  !  God  heard  !  Pure,  pious  hearts,  were  importuning 
him ;  and  so,  gently,  within  the  hollow  of  His  hand,  as  I  have 
told  you,  He  guided  the  skiff  toward  those  friendly  watchers — 
turning  aside  the  masses  of  ice  that  crushed  and  ground 


REMORSE.  287 

against  each  other — warding  off  threatening  timbers,  and  in- 
terposing the  invisible  shield  of  Almighty  protection,  between 
that  life,  and  multitudinous  peril.  No  man,  not  even  he  in 
whose  behalf  this  miracle  was  wrought,  can  tell  how,  or  why, 
he  was  vomited  from  out  the  jaws  of  death  that  night  j  for 
none  may  share  the  councils  of  the  Almighty.  But  wind, 
and  frost,  and  flood,  were  given  charge  concerning  him,  and 
so  he  floated  safely  through  the  night,  as  Viola  in  her  warm 
curtained  slumber. 

On — on  he  came — his  back  toward  the  people,  and  his  face 
toward  the  Bluff.  Perhaps  he  thought  Viola  was  there,  asleep, 
aud  unconscious  of  his  danger !  Perhaps  he  thought  of  the 
happy  hours  spent  beneath  the  roof  of  yon  lone  dwelling,  and 
looked  on  it  as  something  he  ne'er  might  see  again  !  Perhaps 
he  sat  there  frozen — stark  and  stiff! 

Suddenly  an  obstruction  struck  the  boat,  whirling  it  sharply 
round,  (mark  !  giving  it  an  impetus  toward  the  friendly  shore), 
and  his  face  was  turned  to  the  crowd.  He  moved  as  though 
he  would  fain  stand  up,  but  could  not ;  then  leaned  forward, 
and  raised  a  pole  with  his  handkerchief  tied  to  it ;  and  a  great 
shout  went  up  from  the  shore. 

Howard  had  dropped  his  cloak  and  risen  to  his  feet.  In 
terrible  excitement  he  watched  the  boat  drifting  towards 
them — yes,  towards  them — crowded  out  of  the  current,  as  it 
were,  by  the  larger  masses  that  choked  the  river.  It  seemed 
nearer,  to  the  bewildered  and  unsteady  vision  of  this  young 
man,  than  in  reality  it  was ;  and,  with  some  insane  reproaches 
to  the  Walsingham  brothers,  for  their  supineness  at  the  golden 


288  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

moment,  he  seized  one  of  the  Captain's  ropes,  and  threw  it  to- 
ward the  skiff.  Poor  Howard !  weak  in  nerves,  as  in  judg- 
ment !  The  missile  fell  far  short  of  its  destination. 

"  Young  man,  I'll  thank  you  not  to  meddle  with  my  tackle," 
said  the  Captain.  "  Amuse  yourself  by  hauling  in  that  line." 

And  now,  the  old  seaman,  with  steady  aim  and  true,  hurled 
his  billet.  It  whizzed  sharply,  cutting  the  air,  and  fell 
beyond  the  boat.  Instantly,  he  gave  out  line  until  it  dropped 
across  the  skiff.  How  quickly  the  stiffened  fingers  of  the 
voyager  closed  upon  it !  How  deftly  he  wound  it  around  the 
bow;  and,  still  floating  downward,  he  was  drawn  toward  the 
pier.  A  moment  more,  and  he  would  be  swept  past ;  but  he 
sat  motionless,  apparently  helpless. 

"  Quick  I"  shouted  the  Captain.  "  Unloose  the  rope,  and 
hold  on !" 

He  did  not  move. 

"  Rouse  yourself,  and  make  one  last  effort  for  life,"  exhorted 
"Walsingham. 

He  rose  feebly,  and  fumbling  at  the  rope,  unloosed  it.  A 
moment,  more,  and  the  little  boat  was  gliding  on  to  the  sea, 
as  before,  while  its  inmate,  grasping  the  rope,  hung  over  the 
flood.  A  few  of  the  boldest  men  upon  the  shore  had  joined 
the  "Walsinghams,  and  with  their  united  strength,  rapidly 
drew  up  the  rope.  Not  rapidly  enough ;  for  one  hand,  sud- 
denly relaxing  its  grasp,  fell  by  the  sufferer's  side ;  and  his 
whole  weight  hung  upon  one  stiff,  numb,  almost  lifeless  arm. 

"  Hold  on  !     Hold   on  !"  cry  they  all.     "  If  you  relax  A 


REMORSE.  liSy 

muscle,  you  are  lost!"  "Keep  a  stout  heart  for  one  more 
moment,  and  you  are  saved.  Pull  away,  men." 

He  was  almost  up,  when  Walsingham,  throwing  himself 
upon  the  planks,  leaned  over  and  grasped,  yes,  grasped  the 
arm  of  the  almost  rescued  man. 

Just  in  time,  Noble  Heart,  for  his  strength  is  spent,  and 
he  hangs  helpless  in  your  stout  arms.  Over  the  bridge's 
splintered  edge  they  lift,  like  a  dead  body,  the  exhausted 
man  !  He  does  not  greet,  or  thank,  or  question  them  in  his 
old,  frank,  ready  way.  He  cannot  answer  their  questionings, 
and  congratulations;  and  so  they  give  him  stimulants,  and 
wrapping  him  in  blankets,  bear  him  to  the  nearest  house, 
where  they  chafe  his  frozen  limbs,  and  apply  the  remedies 
usual  for  those  who  have  well  nigh  perished  with  exposure.* 

Viola  is  there,  and  Helen,  and  Mrs.  Irving,  for  the  care 
that  would  have  kept  this  fearful  peril  from  them,  has  been 
vain ;  and  they,  with  the  ready  tact  of  women,  minister  to 
the  necessities  of  the  suffering  youth.  The  doctor  tells  them 
that  he  may  yet  die,  and  writes  prescriptions  that  no  one  can 
read,  and  issues  orders  no  one  can  understand ;  while  Viola 
almost  swoons  with  dread,  lest  the  grim  terror  that  pursued 
him  through  the  night  should  insidiously  steal  him  from  the 
midst  of  friends  elate  with  rescue.  Then  she  folds  her  arms 
about  him  protectingly,  and  mourns  over  him  in  broken  sen- 
tences : — 

"  Oh,  Cola !     My  Cola  !     Must  I  lose  you  ?     Can  we  now 

*  In  a  country  newspaper  may  be  found  an  account  of  an  adven- 

tin-e  resembling  this. 


290  EROS     AND    ANTEROS. 

be  parted  ?"  And  he  makes  an  effort  to  whisper  that  he  -will 
not  die,  for  he  feels  the  principle  of  life  too  strong  within. 

Then  she  sees  Walsingham  looking  on  them,  sadly,  for  that 
gentleman,  although  thankful  that  God  has  spared  these  fond 
ones  to  each  other,  is  not  philosopher  enough  to  behold  with- 
out a  pang  the  caresses  of  his  beloved,  lavished  upon  another. 
She  sees  her  guardian's  disquiet,  I  say,  and  seizing  his  hands, 
kisses  them  reverently ;  and  in  her  transport  of  gratitude, 
uses  such  language  of  praise  as  causes  his  face  to  flush,  while 
she  thanks  him  for  saving — her  brother  ! 

Yes,  her  brother  !  He  had  heard  aright,  for  she  repeats  it ; 
and  Howard  heard,  and  Helen;  and  a  great  light  seems  to 
shine  in  the  midst !  The  one,  half  stupid  from  the  horrors 
through  which  he  has  lately  passed,  feels  a  thrill  of  thankful- 
ness that  he  has  been  spared  from  being  the  murderer  of  her 
brother;  the  other,  with  a  maiden's  blush,  feels  shame  that 
she  should  have  been  jealous  of  the  love  of  a  brother. 


- 

UNCERTAINTY.  291 


CHAPTER    XXXVII 

UNCERTAINTY. 

"  I  have  seen  the  robes  of  Hermes  glisten, 
Seen  him  wave  afar  his  serpent  wand; 
But  to  me,  the  Herald  would  not  listen, 
When  the  dead  swept  by  at  his  command. 
Not  with  that  pale  crew, 
Durst  I  venture  too — 
Shut  from  me  the  quiet  land." 

ATTOTJN. 

POOR  Helen !  poor,  happy  Helen !  To  her  young,  tried 
heart,  that  struggled  so  bravely  with  its  fancied  sorrow,  are 
our  sympathies  first  due.  Walsingham,  with  his  unsuspected 
passion  buried  in  the  recesses  of  his  strong  heart,  is  sufficient 
unto  himself;  and  Howard,  in  the  profound  slumber,  that 
follows  exhaustion,  is  insensible  to  all  external  things,  even  the 
subtle  influence  of  sympathy. 

Poor,  happy  Helen,  then  !  Happy,  in  the  conviction  that 
her  beloved  was  faithful,  yet  must  we  pity  the  self-reproach 


292  EROS     AND     ANTEROS. 

which  punished  that  loving  nature  because  of  its  imperfect 
trust. 

He  was  once  more  the  hero  of  her  worship,  the  embodiment 
of  all  the  noble  attributes  which  make  man  godlike  !  Hand- 
some, gifted,  loving — and  true.  True  to  all  those  nameless, 
delicious  wordings  that  she  had  treasured  in  her  maiden 
memory,  repeated  to  herself  in  revery,  and  recalled  in  dreams, 
before  suspicion  robbed  them  of  their  spirit.  Then  the  trea- 
sures of  memory  became  its  brands :  burning,  how  deep  and 
sore,  the  young  sufferer  knew  only. 

And  now,  like  a  sudden  phantasmagoria,  the  evil  changed 
again  to  good.  The  cruel,  dark  deceits  that,  spectre-like, 
haunted  memory,  smiled  into  light,  and  became  reanimated 
with  the  vitality  of  truth.  Thus  had  he  looked,  thus  spoken ; 
not  in  deception  and  beguiling,  but  in  the  earnestness  of  love, 
and  with  the  holy  power  of  truth,  which  she,  in  her  distrust, 
had  resisted,  and  by  her  distrust  had  been  punished. 

"  Oh,  mamma !"  she  whispered,  clasping  the  hand  of  that 
safe  confidant,  "  I  am  too,  too  happy  I" 

"  Poor  child  !  dear  daughter !"  responded  the  mother,  with 
tender  pity. 

"  Do  not  pity  me,  mamma,  for  all  that  I  have  suffered.  It 
may  be  in  some  small  degree  an  expiation  for  the  wrong  I 
have  done  him.  And  now,  that  it  is  past,  I  feel  it  to  have 
been  a  valuable  experience.  I  was  incapable  of  bliss  like  this 
before  I  suffered." 

The  mother  looked  sorrowfully  at  her  child.     Helen  kissed 


UNCERTAINTY.  293 

her  and  smiled  "  Incredulous  mamma !  you  do  not  yet 
believe  that  all  has  terminated  happily." 

"  My  child,  Heaven  grant  that  all  may  terminate  happily, 
as  you  say." 

The  tone  of  doubt,  in  which  this1  was  uttered,  filled  Helen 
with  dismay. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked  quickly.  "  Have  not 
mine  own  eyes  beheld  him  safe  ?  Did  I  not  see,  while  Viola's 
kisses  rained  on  him,  how  his  eyes  wandered,  searching  me  ? 
For,  even  in  that  awful  hour,  I  did  not  approach,  believing 
he  was  not  mine  :  and  when,  under  the  influence  of  that  look, 
I  arose  and  came  to  him,  he  drew  my  head  upon  his  bosom, 
whispered  'Beloved,'  and  fainted  with  excess  of  bliss,  as  I 
could  do,  when  I  remember  it.  Oh,  mother !" 

"Helen,  this  is  wild.  Be  calm,  and  nerve  yourself  for 
further  trial.  My  child,  could  you  part  with  this  precious 
life,  should  God  require  it?" 

Helen  laughed.  "  For  what  purpose  would  God  have  pre- 
served him  from  the  thousand  deaths  that  through  the  night 
encompassed  him,  if  he  is  to  die  now  downily  ?  Your  fears 
are  childish,  mother." 

The  mother  folded  her  arms  about  her  child,  looked  into 
her  eyes,  and  said  impressively :  "  Helen,  I  speak  truly;  he  is 
in  mortal  peril.  The  physicians  think  he  may  not  survive  the 
approaching  night." 

Helen  threw  off  those  circling  arms,  as  though  there  was 
suffocation  in  the  embrace.  "  Oh,  mother !  cruel  mother,  to 
tell  me  this  !  Ilavo  nil  his  bravo  struggles  with  multiform 


294  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

death  been  vain  ?  Must  I  resign  him  in  the  moment  that  he 
is  restored  to  me  ?  I  cannot  weep,  because  I  cannot  believe 
it !  Take  me  to  him,  that  I  may  look  in  his  eyes  and  read  our 
fate.  Stay,  mother ;  you  are  familiar  with  sickness.  You  have 
watched  the  pulses  ebb,  the  energies  fail,  and  life  go  out.  Do 
you  think  he  will  die  ?" 

Mrs.  Irving  kissed  her  dry  eyes,  chafed  her  hot  hands,  yet 
answered  with  the  sternness  of  truth,  "  Pray  for  strength  for 
the  worst,  my  poor  child,  for  he  will  die." 

Helen  bowed  her  head  upon  her  clasped  hands,  and  sank, 
perhaps,  beneath  the  weight  of  this  blow — perhaps  in  prayer. 

Two  large  tears  trickled  down  the  mother's  cheek  as  she 
watched  her  stricken  child. 

Helen  arose,  after  a  space,  and  said,  "  Is  it  not  strange, 
mother,  that  I  cannot  weep?  that  I  cannot  even  feel  sad? 
What  is  the  meaning  of  this  peace  within,  when  he  I  love  is 
trembling  upon  the  eternal  verge  ?  Is  it  that  he  has  been  re- 
stored to  me,  and  will  henceforth  be  mine,  though  all  space 
divide  us  ?  It  was  a  beneficent  goodness  that  created  us  for 
each  other,  and  should  that  same  Power  part  us  for  a  season  ? 
Why,  time  is  so  very  short,  methinks  I  can  live,  loving,  hoping, 
and  happy,  until  bidden  to  join  him  in  that  sphere  where  love, 
purified  from  the  fever  of  passion,  and  imperfection  of  earth, 
will  be  the  pervading  atmosphere,  and  life  and  bliss  are  eter- 
nal Take  me  to  him,  mother." 

Walsingham  was  watching,  with  Viola,  by  her  brother's 
bedside,  when  Helen  entered.  He  rose  and  resigned  to  her 
his  seat  at  the  sufferer's  head.  This  acknowledgment  of  her 


UNCERTAINTY.  295 

near,  dear  right  was  pleasing  to  her.  She  bent  over  him  with 
a  long  gaze  of  earnest  inquiry. 

Love  itself  could  scarcely  recognise,  in  the  poor  victim  be- 
fore her,  the  handsome  youth  who  had  gone  forth  so  joyously. 
His  clustering  hair,  thrown  back,  writhed  over  the  pillow, 
leaving  his  shrunken  forehead  bare ;  his  face  was  scarlet,  his 
lips  cracked  and  parched,  his  eyes  wild  and  bloodshot.  She 
touched  his  swollen  hands,  and  he  shrunk  from  her  with  a  cry 
of  pain;  then  answering  her  gaze  with  a  look  of  perplexed 
inquiry,  exclaimed, 

"  Unstable  as  water  !" 

"  Viola  !  Walsingham  !  Mother  !  what  does  he  mean  ?" 

"He  has  no  meaning,  Helen;  he  is  delirious,"  answered 
Walsingham. 

"  I  know  the  waters,  and  they  are  treacherous,"  he  mut- 
tered, hoarsely.  "  They  are  cruel  to  those  who  trust  them  ! 
They  spread  themselves  as  a  floor  for  the  unwary !  They  en- 
tangle their  cold  arms  about  him !  They  close  their  slimy 
jaws  upon  him  ! — drag  him  down — down — down  for  ever, 
through  a  sea  of  agony,  to  fires  they  cannot  quench !" 

The  gasping  utterance  of  short  quick  sentences  ceased,  and, 
for  a  moment,  he  lay  panting.  Then,  looking  at  Helen,  he 
again  exclaimed — 

"Unstable  as  water!  Who  said  it  of  me?  'Twas  you, 
with  your  cold  averted  eyes  !  You  thought  me  like  the  cruel 
element !  Did  I  woo  treacherously  to  engulf  in  ruin  ?  Is 
my  heart  an  ocean  ?  Ay,  of  love  for  you,  Trustless  !  Ye  had 
no  faith,  else  would  you  have  cast  yourstlf  thereon  and  been 


296  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

borne  up  safely.  Drowned — drowned — -drowned  ! — enough  of 
water !  How  is  it  ?  <  Enough — enough  of  water  hast  thou  !' 
— say  it  for  me  !" 

Helen's  tears  fell  fast  upon  the  sufferer.  He  shook  them 
from  his  hands,  and  raved — 

"  The  black  waves  of  Acheron  are  the  tears  of  eternal  grief! 
Lamenting  Cocytus  appals  my  soul  with  the  howling  of  his 
surge  !  Pyriphlegethon  rages  against  me  !  Though  I  be  cast 
away  upon  its  sea  of  fire,  my  bones  consume  not !  Dank  airs 
howl  around  me,  yet  refuse  to  lift  the  mirage,  which  veils  the 
void  empire  toward  which  I  sail !  There  is  a  shadowy  ferry- 
man upon  the  shore !  His  grim  eyes  pierce  the  gloom,  and 
follow  me,  whirling — whirling  through  all  the  cycles  of  time 
upon  this  flood  of  deadly  hate ;  yet  onward — onward  !  Where 
doth  Lethe  await  the  mariner  ?  Lethe,  the  blest,  who  hushes 
on  her  bosom  the  oppressions  of  many  sorrows;  who  washes 
out,  with  magic  waves,  the  remembrance  of  dismal  woe !" 

These  frightful  ravings  dispelled  the  strange  calm  of  Helen's 
mind.  Her  mental  exaltation  passed  away,  leaving  the  poor 
enthusiast  but  a  weak,  sorrowing,  suffering,  timid,  tender 
woman.  Here  these  young  creatures  learned  their  first  terri- 
ble lessons  of  mortality.  Walsingham  watched  with  them, 
partly  because  he  could  not  permit  his  darling  to  wrestle  with 
her  first  sorrow,  unsustained  by  his  presence,  and  partly  be- 
cause of  the  great  interest  he  now  felt  in  the  poor  youth  to- 
ward whom  he  had  been  unjust.  The  various  inconsistencies 
which  had  displeased  him  in  Cola  became  reconciled,  now 


UNCERTAINTY.  297 

that  his  position  was  explained ;  and,  as  Viola's  brother,  he  be- 
came an  object  of  especial  regard  and  care. 

"  If  we  can  calm  him  to  sleep,  there  is  hope,"  said  Walsing- 
ham.  "I  will  administer  this  composing  potion,  and  watch 
by  him,  myself;  you,  Helen,  with  Viola,  must  retire." 

"I  will  stay,"  she  said;  and,  seeing  him  about  to  refuse, 
added,  resolutely,  "  Nay,  I  will  stay !  death  itself  cannot  be 
more  still,  than  I." 

Walsingham  was  not  a  man  accustomed  to  be  defied ;  but 
there  was  something  so  resolute  and  despairing  in  her  face  that 
he  urged  her  no  more.  He  compensated  himself  by  leading 
Viola  and  Mrs.  Irving  to  ths  door,  forstalling  all  objection  by 
saying,  "  It  must  be  so.  If  you  all  remain,  he  will  never  sleep. 
I  will  come  to  you  with  news  of  him.  Good-night." 


298  BEOS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

EXPLANATIONS. 

To  the  influence  of  medicine  the  terrible  excitement  yielded 
at  last,  and  the  patient  slept.  The  flush  of  fever  faded  from 
his  face;  cold" dews  stood  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  features 
seemed  emaciated  as  though  by  protracted  suffering.  In  his 
death-like  repose  he  looked  strangely  like  his  dead  mother. 
Walsingham  was  surprised  that  he  had  never  observed  .the 
likeness  before,  as  his  resemblance  to  her,  was  greater  than 
Viola's. 

This,  then,  was  the  son  whose  doubtful  fate  had  disturbed 
the  peace  of  that  mother  in  her  dying  hour.  In  whose  behalf 
she  had  solicited  t\e  services  of  Walsingham,  should  he  ever 
be  in  a  ^situation  to  afford  them.  Remembering  that  lorn 
death-bed,  he  felt,  as  he  sat  by  the  couch  of  the  young  man 
whom  he  had  rescued  from  death,  that  this  was  another  ward, 
strangely  led  to  him  by  the  hand  of  fate. 

But  where  had  his  childhood  been  sheltered  ?     Who  was 


EXPLANATIONS. 

educating  his  youth  ?  Di«.  the  father  of  these  children  live  ? 
and  if  so,  would  he  claim  Viola  ? 

In  the  adjoining  room,  she  sat  upon  a  low  stool,  her  hand 
grasping  the  arm  of  an  easy-chair,  and  her  head  reclined 
against  it.  To  Walsingham,  who  looked  at  her  through  the 
open  door,  she  pictured  her  own  childhood.  In  that  attitude 
it  had  been  her  wont  to  nestle  by  his  great  chair,  lost  in  her 
beautiful  child  reveries,  listening  to  his  reading,  or  waiting 
for  his  caress.  Would  she,  the  child  of  his  heart,  rejoice  to 
find  a  father?  Would  she  leave,  willingly,  the  tenderness 
which  had  girt  her  life,  for  the  parent  in  whose  heart  nature 
had  been  dumb  ?  He  grew  jealous  of  the  influence  which  this 
evil  man  might  obtain  over  the  youth  and  innocence  yonder, 
and  wondered  why  a  gift  of  Heaven,  so  precious,  had  been 
thus  misbestowed.  He  had  schooled  himself  to  the  idea  of 
resigning  her  to  the  husband  she  might  choose,  because  he 
believed  her  happiness  demanded  that ;  but  this  father  could 
only  break  her  heart,  as  he  had  broken  her  mother's. 

And  he  gazed  at  her  in  the  distance  with  a  look  so  deep,  so 
earnest,  so  sad,  that  it  penetrated  her  heart — she  lifted  her 
graceful  head  from  its  resting-place,  relinquished  her  hold 
upon  the  chair,  and  made  a  sign  to  him. 

He  looked  again  upon  the  brother,  locked  in  slumber  pro- 
found, then  upon  Helen,  whose  eyes  were  fastened  on  his  face 
— whispered  to  the  young  watcher  a  few  words  of  comfort  and 
hope,  and  obeyed  the  beckoning  hand. 

She  still  sat  upon  the  low  stool,  and  he  threw  himself  in 


300  EROS    AND    ANTEEOS. 

the  vacant  chair,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  hers,  as  it  grasped 
the  arm.  "  Viola,"  he  said,  "  have  you  a  father  ?" 

The  question  was  abrupt,  and  unlocked  for,  and  she  an- 
swered, in  some  surprise,  "  I  thought  you  knew  all !" 

"  Would  to  Heaven  I  had ;  it  would  have  saved  me  some 
anxiety,"  he  said. 

"  There  has  been  some  misunderstanding,"  she  whispered, 
"  for  which,  I  hope,  I  am  not  to  blame.  Do  you  remember, 
one  morning,  when  I  came  to  your  study  with  a  letter  from 
him?" 

"Yes." 

"  It  was  with  the  intention  of  telling  you  my  newly-acquiied 
knowledge  that  I  came,  but — " 

"  But  I  prevented  your  narrative  by  saying  that  I  knew  all." 

She  threw  back  her  curls,  and  looked  up  in  his  face,  with 
the  old  expression  of  childish  surprise  upon  her  own,  saying, 
"  And  did  you  not,  sir  ?" 

"  I  ?  no !  I  supposed — well,  no  matter  what !  I  misunder- 
stood the  facts.  Have  the  goodness  to  give  me  them  now." 

"  Well,  then,  when  Cola  Conway  came  to  the  Eyrie,  with 
Howard,  there  was  something  in  his  presence  that  troubled 
me.  I  felt  confused — puzzled — at  fault  \  A  half  recollection 
haunted,  yet  continually  eluded  me.  As  Uncle  Captain  would 
say,  he  reminded  me  of  something  I  could  not  think  of.  When 
he  sang  that  vesper  song  (you  remember  it,  don't  you  ?)  this 
entanglement  of  mind  grew  absolutely  distressing,  until  at 
last  it  broke  into  unravelment,  and  the  remembrance  after 
which  my  mind  was  striving,  came  fully  and  fairly  before  it. 


EXPLANATIONS.  3"! 

A  small  fire-lit  room,  through  which  floated  that  vesper  me- 
lody, arose  before  me,  and  then,  I  knew  it  was  the  song  my 
mother  used  to  sing  her  child ;  then,  I  knew  it  was  of  the 
beautiful  lost  face  that  hovered  about  my  earlier  life,  that  the 
young  stranger  reminded  me." 

"  Did  you  think,  then,  that  he  was  your  brother  ?" 

"Oh,  no!  I  only  felt  drawn  toward  him,  because  of  the 
taste  which  had  treasured  a  gem  of  music  which  had  been  a 
favourite  with  my  mother. 

"  I  frequently  besought  him  to  sing  it,  because  of  the  asso- 
ciations it  had  for  me ;  and  one  evening,  when  we  had  grown 
familiar,  I  told  him  how  this  song  of  his  affected  me,  and 
why.  Then  he  told  me  that  my  story  was  like  his  own ;  that 
he,  too,  had  lost  his  mother  early,  but  that  he  had  no  remem- 
brance of  her,  and  but  few  mementoes.  The  song  he  had 
found  among  his  father's  papers,  and  he  had  taken  pleasure 
in  singing  it,  because  it  was  composed  by  the  mother,  whom 
he  had  never  known. 

"  One  day  I  wore  a  ring  which,  because  of  its  quaint  style, 
he  admired.  Upon  examining  the  cipher  he  said,  ( Viola, 
would  it  distress  you  very  much  if  I  should  be  your  brother  ?' 
I  laughed,  and  told  him  I  would  adopt  him,  if  he  liked,  but 
that  Providence  had  never  permitted  me  relations. 

'"I  think/  said  he,  solemnly,  'that  He  is  sending  you  a 
near,  and  dear  one,  now !  I  have  a  sister  somewhere  in  this 
wide  world,  and  that  cipher  tells  me,  you  are  she.  When  my 
father  died,  he  left  me  to  the  care  of  my  uncle,  and  also  the 
little  girl,  if  she  could  be  found.  There  is  a  paper  at  home, 


302  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

containing  that  which  will  establish  her  identity.  When  I 
return,  I  shall  read  it  eagerly;  and  if  it  confirms  my  belief,  I 
will  send  you  a  copy.' 

"  When  the  paper,  and  Cola's  letter,  came,  there  was  no  longer 
any  doubt  upon  my  mind,  and  I  hastened  to  tell  you  I  had 
found  a  brother.  I  may  have  been  mistaken,  but  you  seemed 
pained  when  I  opened  the  subject,  and,  I  fancied,  unwilling 
to  hear  me  speak  upon  it.  You  interrupted  me,  with  the 
assurance  that  you  knew  all,  and  I  supposed  you  had  recognised 
Cola  to  be  my  brother  from  the  beginning,  and  probably  had 
never  lost  sight  of  him.  Feeling  a  delicacy  in  obtruding  a 
subject  which  appeared  to  be  distasteful,  I  was  silent." 

Walsingham  bit  his  lip,  as  he  thought  of  the  sharp  agony 
which  smote  him  upon  that  well  remembered  morning,  when 
she  came,  as  his  jealous  fears  suggested,  to  confide  to  him  a 
tale  of  love. 

"  There  is  one  thing  that  puzzles  me  in  this  affair,"  said  he. 
"  Why,  did  you  keep  your  discovered  relationship  secret  from 
your  other  friends  ?  It  would  have  been  natural  to  have  pro- 
claimed it  at  once." 

Viola's  eyes  sought  the  ground. 

"  That  was  my  impulse ;  but  I  felt  it  was  due  to  you  to  be 
first  consulted.  Our  interview  was  so  strangely  constrained, 
that  I  became  embarrassed,  and  could  neither  express  my  own 
feelings,  nor  discover  yours.  I  believed,  however,  that  you 
were  unwilling  to  have  known,  that  which  had  so  long  been 
concealed. 

"  I  have  accustomed  myself  to  divine  your  thought1?  when 


EXPLANATIONS.  303 

you  arc  chary  in  expression/'  she  added,  with  a  smile ;  "  but 
do  you  know,  upon  this  occasion,  I  fancied  there  was  some- 
thing in  your  mind,  which  you  determined  I  should  not  per- 
ceive, and  therefore  made  our  interview  as  brief  as  possible. 
I  may  have  been  Tfrong." 

"You  were  not  wrong,  Viola." 

What  was  it  which  he  had  desired  to  hide  from  her  ?  She 
looked  up  inquiringly.  She  was  a  natural  physiognomist,  and 
in  the  study  of  his  countenance  was  practised.  Had  she  ever 
read  one  secret  there  ? 

As  she  sat  in  her  low  stool  by  his  side,  with  upturned  face, 
he  looked  down  into  the  depths  of  her  wondering  eyes ;  in  a 
steadfast  gaze,  each  strove  to  read  the  heart  of  the  other. 
The  prolonged  scrutiny  brought  no  new  knowledge  to  either. 
He  saw  no  shadow  of  her  inner  thought  upon  her  confiding, 
childlike  face ;  she  saw  only  the  pallor  of  midnight  study,  the 
lines  of  earnest  meditation,  upon  his  calm,  inscrutable  counte- 
nance. 

She  averted  her  eyes  at  length,  and  he  fancied  a  tremor 
thrilled  the  small  hand  which  lay  beneath  his  own.  With  a 
sudden  impulse,  he  took  it  between  his,  saying,  "  Viola,  you 
were  ever  truthful !  answer  me  this.  Did  you  never  divine 
that  one  thing  which  I  strove  to  conceal  ?" 

She  did  not  lift  her  eyes  from  the  ground,  and  was  silent. 

"Answer  me,  as  truthfully _ as  a  novice  at  confessional,  or 
refuse  to  answer  at  all." 

"  I  thought  that  I  did,"  she  said. 

The  usually  calm  pulses  of  Walsingham  would  not  have 


304  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

beaten  so  fast,  but  that  he  believed  the  hour  for  love's  fruitioi 
had  coine  to  him,  at  last. 

"I  thought/'  said  Viola,  with  her  girlish  candour,  "tha 
you  loved  me — " 

"  Heaven  knows  how  well !"  he  cried,  with  fervour. 

"  And  that  you  were  unwilling  to  part  with  me." 

"  Yes,  yes !" 

"  I  thought  that  you  knew  that  my  uncle  would  claim  m 
when  he  became  aware  of  my  existence,  and  therefore  yo 
desired  to  keep  my  identity  a  secret." 

He  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  letting  her  hand  fall. 

"  Was  I  right  ?"  she  asked. 

"  That  I  loved  you,"  he  answered  with  an  effort,  "  yes ;  tha 
I  was  unwilling  to  part  with  you,  yes !  But  that  I  woul 
retain  possession  of,  or  influence  over  you,  by  the  concealmec 
of  anything  proper  to  be  known,  or  by  other  than  oper 
honourable  means,  no!  Viola,  you  are  as  a  little  child  !" 

There  was  an  impatience  in  the  utterance  of  the  last  ser 
tence,  which  her  ear  was  quick  to  detect,  and  she  retorte 
with  sudden  bitterness, 

"  I  have  grown  to  womanhood  under  your  very  eye,  yet  yo 
will  not  see  it." 

And  as  she  arose  to  her  full  height,  and  swept  away,  sh 
looked  indeed  a  woman.  He  marvelled  at  the  change  in  hei 
who,  a  moment  before,  sat  at  his  feet,  with  her  young  fac 
upturned  for  his  reading. 


ONE    WE    HAVE    MET    BEFORE.  305 

- 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

INTRODUCTION  TO  ONE  WHOM  WE  HAVE  MET  BEFORE. 

"A  man  of  mark  to  know  next  time  you  saw. 
His  very  serviceable  suit  of  black 
Was  courtly  once,  and  conscientious  still, 
And  many  might  have  worn  it,  though  none  did." 

IF  a  momentary  passion  had  agitated  Viola,  it  was  hushed, 
when  she  stood  in  the  quiet  room  where  Cola  still  slept,  and 
Helen  watched.  She  approached  the  bed  with  a  feeling  of 
self-condemnation,  for  having  entertained  in  her  heart,  aught 
save  love,  and  prayer  for  him. 

The  fearful  excitement  had  passed  away;  the  fever  was 
allayed,  and  his  pallid  and  profound  repose  seemed  more  like 
death,  than  sleep.  There  was  something  awful  in  the  out- 
stretched and  motionless  figure,  revealed  through  snowy 
drapery,  looking  as  though  for  ever  beyond  the  reach  of  pain. 
The  ashen  face,  the  pale  hands,  meekly  resting  on  the  breast, 
seemed  folded  to  an  endless  repose.  Break  the  frightful 
•calm  that  chains  volition!  wail,  moan,  cry  aloud!  that  love 
26* 


306  EKOS    AND    ANTEROS. 

may  know  ye  have  not  lost  the  capacity  to  suffer !  Be  noi 
thus  stark  and  still,  as  though  reposing  in  the  last  terrible 
immunity  from  sorrow ! 

The  burden  of  that  night's  nameless  fears,  these  two  youu^ 
watchers  bore  together.  Walsingham  paced  the  adjoining 
room,  occasionally  approaching  the  group  to  assure  himself 
that  all  continued  well.  The  shadows  of  night  dispersed  ai 
last,  and  joy  came  in  the  morning,  for  the  peril  was. past. 

When  Viola  had  collected  her  scattered  thoughts,  she 
essayed  to  write  an  account  of  her  brother's  adventure  to  the 
uncle,  whom  she  had  never  seen.  Hers,  was  the  pen  of  a  read} 
writer;  but  on  this  occasion  it  seemed  stupid,  and  utterly  dumb, 
It  is  an  easy  thing  to  write  to  a  friend  whose  character  you 
understand.  Avoiding  all  that  would  offend,  and  ministering 
graciously  to  the  well  known  tastes,  you  may  glide  through 
your  story  to  a  pleasant  ending,  without  constraint,  or  fear.  Il 
is  comparatively  easy,  to  give  a  verbal  narrative  to  an  uttei 
stranger,  because  the  first  glance  gives  you  some  clue  to  his 
character,  and  the  variable  expressions  of  his  face  encourage 
you  to  proceed,  or  warn  to  desist.  But,  for  a  young  girl, 
to  make,  by  letter,  an  important  communication  to  one  whom 
she  has  never  seen,  and  who  she  is  most  anxious  should 
regard  her  with  favour,  is  a  most  embarrassing  duty.  So 
Viola  felt  it,  as  she  sat  by  the  window,  dipping  her  pen  in 
ink,  and  patiently  holding  it,  until  the  fluid  evaporated  into 
air  instead  of  words. 

This  uncle  had  been  a  man  of  high  official  station,  wlm-o 


ONE    WE    HAVE    MET    BEFORE.  307 

gifts  and  eccentricities  had  rendered  him  a  theme  of  private 
conversation,  as  well  as  newspaper  discussion.  Thus  she 
became  familiar  with  his  fame,  before  she  knew  of  the  tie 
between  herself  and  him.  After  she  had  discovered  her 
relationship,  Cola,  in  reply  to  her  eager  questions,  had  given 
her  as  fair  an  account  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  do.  Re- 
specting his  uncle  profoundly,  Cola  did  not  in  the  least  com- 
prehend his  very  remarkable  character;  and  from  all  which 
he  told  her,  Viola  conceived  a  vague  awe  for  her  mysterious 
relative,  whom  she  now  felt  it  her  duty  to  address. 

He  was  a  man  of  stern,  yet  fervent  nature.  Pne  who 
pursued  the  path  of  duty  with  unhesitating  rectitude ;  taking 
no  delight  therein,  yet  shrinking  from  no  sacrifice  which  it 
might  demand.  If  roses  nodded  by  the  wayside,  making  it  a 
path  of  pleasantness,  their  beauty  and  perfume  were  unseen, 
unfelt  by  him,  because  of  the  steadfastness  with  which  his 
gaze  was  fixed  upon  the  end.  If  burning  ploughshares  paved 
the  pathway,  his  heroic  soul  neither  shrank  nor  faltered. 
Stern,  uncompromising  with  himself,  so  was  he  with  all  man- 
kind :  and  from  his  judicial  station  he  dealt  the  terrors  of  the 
law  with  awful  justice.  Human  sympathy,  with  human  weak- 
ness, he  felt  not.  The  temptations  of  tried  nature  never  won 
compassion.  The  league  of  besetting  circumstances  could 
nought  extenuate.  He  was  clothed  with  authority  to  punish, 
not  to  pity. 

Men  honoured  this  man  for  his  unfaltering  rectitude,  and 
lofty  virtue,  yet  none  loved  him.  Trusts  were  reposed  in  him, 
confidences  bestowed  pn  him,  labours  demanded  of  him,  and 


308  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

with  energetic  zeal  he  met  the  requirements  of  all,  disappoint- 
ing none.  But  no  wife  smiled  in  his  eyes,  or  sweetened  his 
labour  with  love  j  no  child,  on  its  embassy  of  blessing,  came 
fresh  from  Heaven  to  his  j  cyless  home ;  no  friend  sat  by  his 
side  in  the  twilight,  and  bade  him  revive  his  drooping 
energies  in  the  refreshment  of  kindred  companionship. 

If  his  heart  sometimes  clamoured  within  him  for  sympathy, 
it  was  hushed  with  tasks:  'and  it  came  to  pass  that  the 
repressed  instincts  of  his  nature  avenged  themselves  upon  this 
tyranny.  As  the  limb,  compressed  by  art  from  infancy,  and 
prevented  its  natural  development  in  one  part,  will  outgrow 
its  fair  proportion,  and  swell  to  the  superabundance  of  de- 
formity in  another,  so  the  repressed  yearnings  of  this  man, 
forced  from  their  natural  growth,  developed  themselves  in  an 
unlooked-for  and  monstrous  manner.  Steeled  against  the 
sweet  influences  of  daily  life,  he  grew  strangely  susceptible  to 
that  of  unseen,  and  intangible  things.  Checked,  and  hedged 
in  a  narrow  limit  of  the  visible  world,  his  soul  vaulted  to  an 
ideal  realm,  and  held  high  revel  there.  He  called  aloud  from 
out  his  solitude,  and,  to  his  distempered  thoughts,  the  dis- 
embodied spirits  of  air  made  answer.  He  summoned,  with  a 
whisper  which  rang  through  space,  the  souls  of  heroes  and 
martyrs,  and  from  the  unbroken  repose  of  centuries  they  arose 
and  answered.  He  called  upon  the  names  of  departed  kindred, 
and,  bending  low  from  heaven,  they  made  response. 

Men  said  "much  learning  had  made  him  mad,"  and  he 
answered,  "  I  am  not  mad,  but  speak  the  words  of  truth  and 
soberness !"  Yet,  feeling  that  mankind,  not  sharing  his 


ONE    WE    HAVE    ME'.     BEFORE.  309 

strange  belief,  must  distrust  his  judgment,  he  resigned  official 
honours  and  private  trusts ;  thus  laying  all  that  had  adorned 
his  life  upon  the  altar  of  his  new  faith. 

No  marvel  that  Viola  hesitated  to  address  this  mysterious 
man ;  no  marvel  that  she  sat  hy  the  window,  watching  the 
shadow  on  the  dial  move  toward  the  hour  of  noon,  and  the 
pen  still  dry  in  her  hand.  But  it  was  a  marvel  that,  as  she 
gazed  forth  in  perplexity,  she  saw  a  figure  moving  up  the 
avenue,  which  her  intuition  told  her  was  the  man  of  whom 
she  meditated. 

He  was  small  and  slightly  bent — not  with  infirmity,  but 
with  the  energy  of  onward  progress.  His  countenance  was 
dark  and  haggard,  but  his  deep-set  eyes  were  keenly  fixed 
upon  some  point  in  the  distance,  toward  which  he  seemed  to 
move.  So,  with  his  long  hair,  and  beard,  streaming  backward 
in  the  wind,  he  pressed  on,  and  passed  beneath  the  window. 

Viola  laid  down  her  pen,  with  the  conviction  that  this  new 
Presence  absorbed  her  from  the  duty  of  using  it,  and  sought 
the  chamber  of  her  brother. 


310  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


C  SAPTER   XL. 

REVELATIONS. 

"  All  I  believed  is  true. 
I  am  able  yet 
All  I  want,  to  get 
By  a  method  as  strange  as  new. 

Now — now,  the  door  is  heard ; 
Hark !  the  stairs,  and  neap — 
Nearer — and  here — 
Now !  and  at  call  the  third, 
She  enters  without  a  word." 

BROWNING. 

ONWARD — through  hall,  and  stairway,  and  passage,  pressed 
this  Presence,  as  though  in  obedience  to  a  command  recorded 
in  high  Heaven,  when  the  foundations  of  the  world  were  laid. 
Through  the  open  door,  past  the  startled  inmates,  across  the 
f-pacious  chamber,  and  stood  beside  the  bed.  There  was  some- 


REVELATIONS.  311 

thing  so  ethereal  in  the  apparition,  that  it  seemed  as  if  a  spirit 
ha^  glided  past. 

"  You  called  me  in  extremity,  tkne  nights  ago,  and  I  have 
come  !"* 

Cola,  now  restored  to  sense,  but  fearfully  enfeebled,  opened 
his  eyes,  smiled  in  recognition,  and  essayed  to  speak. 

"  I  have  been — in — " 

"  In  many  perils,  you  would  say,  but  cannot.  Be  not 
troubled,  for  I  know  all,  and  therefore  am  I  here.  Sleep  !" 

There  was  an  air  of  ghostly  omniscience  in  his  words,  that 
almost  curdled  the  blood  of  listeners. 

As  unmindful  of  all  a,bout  him,  as  if  he  stood  alone  by  the 
sick  man,  he  felt  his  pulse,  smoothed  the  hair  from  his  brow,  and 
muttered,  "  It  is  well !  his  hour  has  not  come;"  and  vanished. 

No  words  convey  an  idea  of  the  peculiarity  of  his  move- 
ments, so  well  as  those  which  usage  has  consecrated  to  descrip- 
tions of  the  disembodied. 

They  knew  within  that  chamber  that  he  walked  out,  through 
the  open  door,  as  he  had  entered,  yet  a  vague  awe  possessed 
them,  as  though  an  apparition  had  passed. 

Walsingham  arose  and  followed.  He  overtook  him  in  the 
hall.  "I  presume  I  address  Judge  Conway,"  he  said. 

The  stranger  bowed  his  head  with  the  air  of  one  who  had 
been  interrupted  in  some  absorbing  thought,  by  a  trivial  ques- 
tion. 

"  You  have  travelled  fast  and  far,  and  must  be  weary.  The 
lady  of  this  house  commissions  me  to  offer  you  refreshment." 

The  strange  man  was  looking  at  the  door ;  nay,  through  the 


312  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

planks,  to  him  transparent,  away  into  the  wintry  landscape 
beyond.  He  declined  the  proffered  refreshment  with  a  ges- 
ture, and  continued  his  steadfast  gaze. 

"Then,  sir,  have  the  goodness  to  enter,  and  be  seated," 
continued  Walsingham,  throwing  open  the  drawing-room  door. 
"  I  have  much  to  communicate  concerning  your  nephew." 

The  stranger  shook  his  head :  "  You  can  tell  me  nothing 
that  I  do  not  know." 

"  The  intelligence  has  travelled  with  unwonted  rapidity  to 
reach  your  home ;  or  were  you  met  by  it  on  your  way  hither  ?" 

With  his  dreamy  eyes  still  fixed  upon  that  ever-distant 
point  in  space,  he  answered,  with  simple  brevity,  "  I  was  there, 
and  saw." 

11  TJiere,  and  saw  ?"  echoed  Walsingham. 

"Yes.  Spiritually  present;  I  saw  the  turgid  waves,  the 
drifts  of  ice,  the  wreck  and  spoil  of  waters ;  the  boat  a  whirl- 
ing toy  of  wind  and  wave;  the  despairing  face  lifted  in 
agony;  the  arms  reached  forth  in  supplication.  Saw  you 
this  ?"  and  he  turned,  with  fierce  interrogation,  to  Walsing- 
ham. 

"  No." 

The  sudden  excitement  passed  as  quickly  as  it  came,  and 
with  his  usual  cold,  sepulchral  tone  he  added,  "One  othei 
witness  was  there,  concerning  whom  the  powers  of  darkness 
hold  council.  Well  for  you,  that  you  are  not  he." 

"  Permit  me  to  beg,  you  will  explain  how  you  became  spirit- 
ually present  at  this  scene  ?"  inquired  Walsingham,  his  statel} 
courtesy  contrasting  with  the  wild  abruptness  of  his  guest. 

' 


REVELATIONS.  313 

The  shadowy  Presence  glided  through  the  open  door,  and 
hovered  over  the  seat  which  Walsingham  proffered. 

"  It  was  very  simple,"  he  said ;  "  I  was  alone,  in  the  twi- 
light, thinking  earnestly  of  him,  when  the  cry  of  his  despair 
smote  my  ear." 

"  In  your  own  home,  two  hundred  miles  away  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?  When  such  a  sound  falls  upon  the  atmosphere 
it  surges  in  circumambient  waves,  which,  growing  finer  and 
less,  by  small  degrees,  still  ripple  to  the  remotest  verge  of 
space.  Gross  ears  are  filled  with  the  shock  of  common  sound, 
but  there  is  a  finer  sense,  which  when  attentive,  thrills  to  the 
whispers  which  fill  the  universe." 

"  When  I  heard  that  call,  I  bent  the  whole  energies  of  my 
nature  to  answer  with  my  presence;  and  I  was  there!" 

The  glow  of  enthusiasm  faded,  and  with  some  bitterness, 
he  continued — 

"  I  have  answered  you,  because  it  is  part  of  my  creed  to 
impart  truth  to  the  searcher  after  knowledge,  but  you  cannot 
understand,  and  will  not  believe.  Your  faith,  like  that  of 
your  race,  is  prisoned  within  the  limits  of  a  finite  comprehen- 
sion, and  is  dead  to  the  vast  infinitude  beyond." 

ifcingham  listened  he  inquired  of  himself,  "  Is  this 
ithosiast  the  man  selected  by*  her  father,  to  dispute  with 
rdianship  of  Viola?"     He  had  followed  him  from 
.'•-.-    •  .-re   ai  with  the  intention  of  unfolding  to  him  the  his- 
tory of  his  niece,  and  rendering  an  account  of  his  stewardship, 
but  he  now  hesitated ;  the  man  seemed  brain-sick,  bereft  of 
judgment,  and  hardly  to  be  approached  with  concerns  like 
27 


314  EROSANDANTEROS. 

these.  Reflecting,  however,  that  despite  his  mental  vagaries, 
he  had  been  always  a  good  and  just  man,  fulfilling  worthily  the 
trusts  reposed  in  him,  Walsingham  resolved  to  deal  with  him 
as  with  any  other  man,  and  at  once  approached  the  subject. 

"  With  information,  as  thorough  and  accurate  as  you  pos- 
sess, it  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  tell  you  of  your  nephew's 
present  position,  with  regard  to  a  lady." 

"  I  am  not  informed  upon  that  point,"  said  he,  withdrawing 
his  eyes  from  that  distant  focus  upon  which  they  were  ever 
fixed,  and  looking  in  Walsingham's  face  with  a  certain  kind- 
ling of  human  interest. 

"  Then7 you  are  not  aware  of  his  attachment  to  the  daughter 
of  the  gentleman  in  whose  house  we  are  ?"  said  Walsingham, 
reluctant  to  make  his  communication  at  once. 

The  look  of  interest  faded,  and  an  expression  of  languor 
and  weariness  passed  over  the  haggard  face.  "  My  instincts 
have  been  at  fault,"  he  said.  "  I  thought  it  was  of  another 
female  I  was  about  to  hear." 

"  May  I  inquire  whom  ?" 

"The  lad's  sister,  whom  I  have  never  seen,  and  whose 
guardian  I  am.  Two  years  ago,  when  I  first  became  aware  of 
the  communications  between  the  material  and  immaterial  world, 
I  consulted  the  spirit  of  her  father,  and  was  directed  to  seek  her 
here.  I  traversed  this  valley,  but  failed  to  meet  the  object  of 
my  search." 

"Could  the  spirit  have  been  mistaken?"  suggested  Wal- 
singham. 


REVELATIONS  315 

The  enthusiast  smiled  with  ineffable  pity,  at  the  grossness  of 
his  ignorance ! 

"  Those  who  dwell  in  the  day-beams  of  knowledge  cannot 
srr,  though  their  humble  mediums  in  the  fetters  of  flesh  may. 
I  was  a  novice  then  in  knowledge." 

"When  the  communications  from  the  invisible  world  be- 
came more  clear  to  you,  why  did  you  not  renew  the  search  ?" 

"  Because  the  discouragement  of  the  first  failure  oppressed 
me.  But  your  question,  is  one  that  my  brother  will  ask  me 
in  the  spirit  world,  and  I  must  again  make  the  effort." 

Turning  away  from  Walsingham,  with  a  gesture  of  silence, 
he  fixed  his  hollow  eyes  once  more  upon  some  visionary  and 
distant  point  in  space,  and  gazed  and  meditated.  His  face 
grew  ashen  and  blank,  his  eyeballs  stony,  and  he  seemed  rigid, 
like  one  in  a  convulsion.  Walsingham  was  about  to  call  for 
aid,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Viola  entered.  He  sprang 
between  the  stranger  and  his  ward,  that  she  might  be  spared  the 
shock  of  seeing  him  in  his  terrible  trance,  saying,  as  he  did  so, 
"  Why  have  you  come  ?" 

A  tremor  agitated  the  frame,  while  a  slight  convulsion 
passed  over  the  face  of  the  mysterious  man,  and  the  trance 
was  over.  His  voice,  low  and  dirge-like,  answered  the  ques- 
tion : — 

"  Because  it  was  my  will." 

Thinking  it  wisest  to  make  no  allusion  to  the  strange  affec- 
tion he  had  witnessed,  Walsingham  led  Viola  forward,  and 
introduced  her  as  "  Miss  Walsingham." 


316  EROS     AND    ANTEROS. 

This  was  her  mother's  maiden  name,  and,  at  her  request, 
Viola  had-known  no  other. 

"  Viola  Conway,  welcome !"  said  the  mystic,  taking  her 
trembling  hand  in  his  cold  corpse-like  clasp.  "  In  visions  of 
the  night  I  have  seen  you,  and  spirits  of  air  have  heralded 
your  approach.  Behold  in  me,  the  guardian  appointed  you  by 
your  dead  father." 

To  Viola,  the  name  of  her  father  was  a  spell  of  dread,  and, 
it  is  to  be  feared,  she  regarded  his  agent  as  a  fanatical  mad 
man.  She  said,  timidly, 

"  This — this  is  my  guardian,  sir." 

"  For  the  care  with  which  you  have  discharged  duties  that 
were  mine,  be  thanked,"  he  said,  inclining  slightly  toward 
Walsinghaui.  "  Henceforth  I  shall  relieve  you  of  the  charge." 

Viola  looked  imploringly  at  her  earliest,  best  friend. 

When  did  he  ever  fail  to  respond  to  look,  or  wish  of  hers  ? 
He  took  her  hand,  and  drew  it  through  his  arm,  with  an  air 
of  protection  that  seemed  to  say,  "  Rest  on  me  •"  and 
answered : — 

"This  young  lady  was  given  to  my  care  by  her  mother. 
She  has  sat  by  my  board,  grown  under  my  roof-tree,  and  been 
to  me  a  daughter.  If  the  faithful  discharge  of  a  guardian's 
sacred  duties,  in  time  past,  give  me  a  claim  to  consideration, 
I  ask  you  to  continue  mine  office.  I  have  lived  too  much  fur 
her,  to  live  without  her  now." 

In  the  utterance  of  the  last  sentence  his  fine  voice  faltered, 
with  the  emotion  which  he  had  so  often  successfully  controlled. 
As  the  accents  struck  Viola's  ear,  conveying  to  her  quick  appro- 


REVELATIONS.  317 

hension  a  sudden  conviction  of  all  that  had  been  so  long  hidden, 
a  delicate  roseate  glow  suffused  her  face,  and  her  lips  parted 
with  a  smile.  Oblivious  of  her  recent  fear,  she  stood  with 
her  hand  upon  his  arm,  like  an  Empress  at  her  coronation. 
For  why  ?  Her  womanhood  that  moment  received  its  crown. 
lie  had  lived  too  long  for  her,  to  live  without  her  now! 
What  an  acknowledgment  of  her  supremacy  was  this  !  What 
unconscious  words  of  fealty  had  he  spoken  ! 

"  I  thank  you  for  the  past,"  said  the  impassible  figure,  in 
reply,  "  but  the  future  will  be  my  care.  I  am  pledged  to  the 
dead." 

"  Reflect,"  exclaimed  Walsingham.  "  To  you  she  will  be 
a  burden ;  to  me  a  blessing.  You,  are  unused  to  minister  to 
delicate  womanly  requirements ;  I,  for  her  sake,  have  studied 
them.  You,  have  no  home  to  offer  her,  while  in  mine,  a  place 
filled  by  her  presence  becomes  void,  if  you  rob  me  of  her.  Is 
it  not  more  convenient  for  you,  and  better  for  me,  that  she 
should,  remain  ?" 

This  was  a  lover  pleading  for  his  mistress,  albeit  he  knew 
it  not. 

"  It  is  as  you  say,"  said  the  shadow,  gloomily.  "  She  will 
be  to  me  an  unaccustomed  burden;  but  when  I  render  an 
account  of  my  stewardship  in  Heaven,  can  I  say,  I  did  not 
execute  thy  will  because  it  was  not  convenient  ?  The  way  is 
dark  and  thorny;  the  burdens  are  neither  few  nor  light. 
Those  which  are  heaven-appointed,  the  sophistry  of  man  shall 
not  tempt  me  to  lay  down. 

"  As  for  the  daughter  of  Miles  Conway,  she  must  be  con- 
27  * 


318  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

tent  with  such  protection  and  comfort,  as  the  man,  selected 
by  her  father,  can  offer.  Be  she  luxurious,  she  must  conform 
to  the  life  of  an  ascetic.  Be  she  tender,  she  must  grow 
hardy.  Be  she  dependent,  she  must  learn  self-reliance ;  and 
become,  perchance,  a  wiser,  better  woman,  than  those  who  are 
clad  in  fine  lir.en,  and  dwell  in  kings'  houses." 
•  And  while  this  cold,  hard  arbiter  of  her  destiny  thus 
sternly  spoke,  Viola  still  smiled  her  rosy,  happy  smile.  The 
murmur  of  his  voice  in  her  ear  was  meaningless.  She  was 
queening  it  in  her  new-found  realm !  What  room  for  care, 
or  fear,  was  there  in  the  heart  which  knew  itself  beloved  ? 

"  Is  this  your  fixed  determination  t"  Walsingham  asked. 

"It  is." 

"  I  have  thus  far  appealed  to  you,"  he  said,  with  resolution, 
"  because  I  recognised  the  superior  right  of  a  father  to  dis- 
pose of  his  child.  I  now  give  you  notice,  that  I  will  not  re- 
linquish her  but  at  the  mandate  of  the  law;  and  if  you  make 
the  issue,  I  shall  show  desertion  of  duty,  and  unworthiness  on 
the  part  of  the  parent,  and  unfitness  and  incapacity  in  his 
agent." 

A  dark  flush  passed  over  the  bloodless  face  of  the  claimant. 
"You  would  avail  yourself  of  popular  prejudice,  and  prove 
me  mad,"  he  said,  bitterly.  "  To  this  Moloch  of  ignorance,  I 
have  offered  up  every  right,  every  trust,  and  only  withhold 
this,  because  I  stand  pledged  to  the  dead.  In  proof  of  capa- 
city to  discharge  my  duties,  I  point  to  this  girl's  brother. 
He  stands  a  iving  testimony,  of  care,  as  judicious,  as  it  has 
been  complete.  I  will  make  the  issue,  and  if  the  law  absolve 


REVELATIONS.  319 

from  my  trust,  I,  who  have  administered  the  law,  am  law- 
abiding;"  and  with  his  ghost-like,  noiseless  movement,  he 
faded  from  the  room. 

Oh,  Viola,  Viola!  With  the  sick  brother  tremblingly 
turning  from  the  threshold  of  eternity — with  the  agents  of 
buried  parents  rudely  contending  for  thee  —  why  does  thy 
bosom  thrill  with  ecstasy  ?  thy  cheek  wear  the  radiance  of 
joy?  Why,  in  the  solitude  of  thy  chamber,  dost  ^ou  c^asP 
thy  joyful  hands,  and  lift  thy  exultant  heart,  in  a  rapture  of 
thanksgiving? 

Oh,  Viola  !  Oh,  woman  ?  Thou  dost  know  thyself  to  be 
beloved !  Thou,  who  hast  been  groping  in  the  twilight  of  thy 
unconscious  heart,  hast  had,  by  a  lightning's  flash,  the  glorious 
surroundings  of  youth  and  love  revealed !  That,  which 
seemed,  in  the  half  light  through  which  thou  hast  walked, 
duty,  gratitude,  filial  devotion,  on  thy  part;  in  this  sudden 
illumination  takes  its  true  outline,  and  stands  confessed,  the 
first  deep,  earnest  love  of  woman.  That,  which  in  him,  wore 
the  semblance  of  patience,  indulgence,  and  faithful  recogni- 
tion of  obligation,  grows  into  largeness  of  stature,  and  reveals 
itself  the  great,  absorbing  passion  of  man  ! 

She  knew,  now,  why  she  trembled,  and  grew  incoherent  in 
his  presence,  when  she  would  have  told  him  of  her  new  rela- 
tk>ns.  She  knew,  too,  why  he  had  checked  her  speech,  and 
misunderstood  her  import.  She  knew  the  cause  of  that 
serene  happiness  which  had  so  long  filled  her  heart.  She 
knew — oh,  what,  in  this  flooding  of  light,  did  she  not  see, 
and  know  ! 


)20  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

- 

LOST! 

(f  I  have  but  to  be  by  thee,  and  thy  hand 
Would  never  let  mine  go,  thy  heart  withstand 
The  beating  of  my  heart  to  reach  its  place. 
When  should  I  look  for  thee  and  feel  thee  gone  ? 
When  cry  for  the  old  comfort  and  find  none  ? 
Never,  I  know.     Thy  soul  is  in  thy  face." 

BROWNING. 

COLA,  from  day  to  day,  improved.  When  health  once 
more  returned  to  the  severely  tried  system  of  this  young  man, 
happiness  came  with  it,  hand  in  hand.  No  more  coldness  ou 
the  part  of  friends.  No  more  misunderstandings  as  before. 
His  love  acknowledged,  accepted,  and  approved,  left  him 
nothing  more  to  ask  for ;  and  to  his  delicious  convalescence 
we  leave  him. 

Yet,  stay !  The  position  of  Viola,  and  the  difference  be- 
tween his  uncle  and  Walsingham,  occasioned  him  pain.  Cola 
had  never  been  wanting  in  affection  or  respect  for  his  uncle, 


LOST.  32i 

but  the  reflections  of  a  sick  couch  had  brought  him  a  better 
understanding  of  that  uncle's  character,  and  a  greater  tender- 
ness for  his  eccentricities.  He  remembered  how  he  had  sacri- 
ficed ease,  and  convenience,  to  give  to  himself  the  care  and 
education  which  his  tender  years,  and  more  matured  youth, 
required.  How  he  had  resigned  position,  honours,  and  influ- 
ence, rather  than  be  false  to  a  conviction  of  his  mind.  How- 
ever strange  or  monstrous  his  belief  might  be,  it  was  the 
honest  irresistible  conviction  of  the  man,  and  his  fealty  to  it 
was  noble.  That  fealty  had  cost  him  all  that  the  earlier 
labours  of  his  life  had  won.  The  belief  was  false,  but  the 
man  was  true.  The  world  had  not  distinguished  between  the 
man  and  his  belief;  hence,  he  was  regarded  as  an  impostor, 
and  exposed  to  contumely.  Cola,  while  deploring  his  views, 
admired  the  immovable  devotion  with  which  he  had  main- 
tained them ;  and,  seeing  how  he  had  sacrificed  to  them  all 
which  men  value,  a  compassionate  tenderness  toward  him  grew 
up  in  his  heart,  and  he  desired  to  shield  him  from  the  pitiless 
scorn  of  the  world.  It  pained  him  to  think  that  Walsingham, 
who  had  always  been  his  model  of  manhood,  and  toward  whom 
he  felt  an  equal  degree  of  gratitude  on  behalf  of  his  sister ; 
that  Walsingham  should  be  in  antagonism  with  his  relative ; 
should  lay  bare  his  errors ;  should  triumph  over,  and  inflict 
new  mortification  upon  the  isolated  and  joyless  man. 

He  talked  of  these  things  with  Viola,  and  she,  who  had  also 
been  pondering  them,  soothed  his  apprehensions,  and  assured 
him  they  should  never  be  realized.  She  promised  that  her 


322  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

uncle  and  Walsingham  should  never  contend  together,  but  be 
friends,  etc. 

"Ah,  Viola,  if  it  depended  upon  Walsingham,  your  influence 
over  him  would  justify  your  assurance ;  but  you  do  not  know 
the  stuff  our  uncle  is  made  of.  He  thinks  it  his  duty  to  as- 
sume the  authority  of  a  guardian  over  his  new-found  ward. 
He  will  promptly  resort  to  legal  measures  to  establish  his 
claim,  and,  in  defence  of  his  own  right,  Walsingham  will  not 
spare  him.  Our  uncle  will  be  presented  to  the  consideration 
of  the  world  as  a  misguided,  half-crazed  fanatic,  while  our 
father — he  was  an  unnatural  father  to  you,  they  say,  Viola, 
and  it  will  strengthen  Walsingham  to  prove  it ; — but  can  we — 
can  you,  endure  this  exposure  ?" 

"  Dear  Cola,  why  will  you  torture  your  sick  brain  with  im- 
possibilities ?  I  tell  you  these  things  shall  never  be." 

"  You  are  half  a  sorceress,  sister  mine,"  responded  he,  with, 
his  old  lightness  of  manner.  "  But  how  are  you  to  charm 
away  these  troubles  ?" 

"  You  do  not  see  !  and  it  so  simple — so  easy  !  What  say 
you  to  my  going  voluntarily  with  my  uncle  and  brother  ?" 

"  Viola !  you  do  not  mean  it !  you  could  not  do  it !  you 
ought  not,  if  you  would  !" 

"  And  why  not  ?"  she  inquired,  with  the  coolest  possible 
smile. 

"  Walsingham  would  as  soon  part  with  his  life's  blood  ;  and 
you  owe  him  everything;  and — well — no  matter!     Go  with 
us?  why  our  cold,  gloomy,  ascetic  home  would  be  n<> 
for  such  a  summer  bird.     Don't  think  »f  that,  Viola." 


LOST.  323 

"My  home  shall  be  wK;rever  I  choose  to  make  it,"  she 
said.  "  Mr.  Walsingham  will  be  influenced  by  my  wish  rather' 
than  his  own  j  and,  for  the  sake  of  our  uncle,  who  has  beeii 
the  only  and  true  friend  of  my  brother's  childhood  j  who  would 
have  been  the  protector  of  mine;  and  to  preserve  from  com- 
ment or  reproach  the  name  of  the  father  whom  we  knew  not ; 
and,  for  other  reasons,  which  I  need  not  mention  now  (her 
colour  rose,  and  she  spoke  rapidly  here),  I  will  accept  the  pro- 
tection which  his  last  thoughts  bespoke. 

"  Are  these  not  motives  sufficiently  strong  to  lead  me  from 
a  luxurious  home,  to  a  hard  one?  Then  remember,  Cola, 
when  I  come  it  will  be  changed.  Containing  a  woman,  it  can 
no  longer  be  gloomy  and  joyless.  We  are  treasures  of  domes- 
tic life,  you  must  understand.  We  do  not  go  through  life 
selecting  sunny  spots  upon  which  to  pitch  our  tents,  but  we 
fill  with  the  light,  and  love,  of  our  presence,  the  waste  places 
which  may  be  appointed  us. 

"  A  precious  pair  of  bachelors  I  shall  have  in  you  and  our 
uncle ;  but  if  I  fail  in  teaching  you  to  appreciate  my  sex,  why, 
Helen  shall  be  added  to  our  household,  and  it  may  be,  she  will 
succeed  where  I  fail.  Then  you,  and  she,  shall  coo  together  in 
one  corner  of  the  chimney,  while  I  shall  darn  my  uncle's  hose 
in  the  other,  and  he  shall  be  sleek,  and  fat,  and  shave  his 
beard,  and  trim  his  hair,  and  grow  benevolent  in  aspect,  as 
well-cared  for  middle-aged  gentlemen  do,  and — and — j"  and 
Viola's  emotions,  at  her  own  touching  picture,  prevented  her 
saying  more. 

Her  manner,  though  half  playful  and  half  sad,  was  reso- 


<524  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

lute,  and  Cola  perceived  she  had  reflected  upon  the  peculiari- 
ties of  her  position,  and  decided  upon  her  course.  Those 
"  other  reasons"  slightly  alluded  to,  were  perhaps  the  deepest, 
as  they  were  the  most  delicate,  which  influenced  her. 

When  Viola  became  fully  aware  of  the  change  which  had 
taken  place  in  the  relations  between  Walsinghaui,  and  herself; 
when  she  had  had  some  faint  glimpses  of  the  adoration  with 
which  he  regarded  her,  and,  from  the  quick  responses  of  her 
own  heart,  found  that  he  indeed  had  grown  into  her  life,  as 
she  in  his — when  she  thus  learned  that  they  were  not  merely 
guardian  and  ward,  but  lovers — the  delicate  instincts  of  wo- 
manhood suggested  it  was  unmeet  that  his  house  should 
be  her  home — that  his  protection  should  shelter  her,  as  here- 
tofore. There  was  no  longer  the  calm  repose  of  home,  beneath 
his  roof.  Her  pulses  beat  not  so  equally  in  his  presence  :  she 
could  not  meet  him  in  the  hall,  or  sit  with  him  at  the  board, 
as  before :  she  was  filled  with  a  sweet  dread  of  his  coming, 
and  feared  to  be  alone  with  him,  whose  presence  was  most 
dear. 

She  knew  that  Walsingham  loved  her ;  she  believed  it  had 
long  been  so,  but  that  he  would  ever  be  other  than  he  had 
always  been  to  her — calm,  dignified,  impenetrable — she  did 
not  believe.  Without  understanding  that  secret  reason,  which 
was  the  foundation-stone  of  his  reserve,  her  faith  in  him  was 
so  implicit  that  she  acquiesced  fully  in  the  wisdom  and  pro- 
priety of  his  conduct.  She  did  not  desire  to  see  him  play  the 
lover.  It  was  enough,  oh  !  too  much  happiness  to  know  her- 
self beloved  by  such  a  man. 


LOST.  325 

But  her  tenderness,  though  humble  and  unexacting,  was 
irrepressible.  Aiming,  as  with  commendable  pride  she  did, 
to  emulate  the  example  of  reserve  which  he  had  set  her,  she 
feared  lest  the  love  which  pervaded  her  being  should,  by  some 
unguarded  look,  tone,  or  gesture  betray  itself — betray  her. 
Not  for  worlds,  upon  worlds,  would  she  have  him  guess  it. 
Their  intercourse  had  been  so  pure,  so  perfect,  so  happy — so 
beautiful  to  remember,  that  she  dreaded  it  should  be  marred 
by  mortifying  weakness  on  her  part,  or  embarrassing  know- 
ledge on  his;  and  this  was  that  " other  reason"  why  she 
would  accept  the  protection  of  her  uncle. 

She  was  thankful  that  the  Providence  who  had  watched  her 
always,  had  provided  a  new  home  for  her  when  she  needed  it. 
Thankful  that  the  awakening  had  not  come  before  the  asylum 
was  offered.  Believing  it  to  be  sent  by  Heaven,  in  answer  to 
her  need,  she  resolved  to  accept  it.  She  would  go  hence, 
bearing  in  her  heart  the  conviction  of  his  deep  love  for  her  ; 
the  delicious  memory  of  years  of  intercourse;  and  her  own 
reverence,  trust,  and  love;  and  with  these  be  happy.  She 
was  grateful  that  she  had  known  him,  and  been  the  recipient 
of  his  tenderness  so  long;  grateful  for  the  impress  of  his 
mind  upon  her  own;  grateful  for  the  influence  which  he 
would  for  ever  exert  over  her  life,  though  they  should  never 
meet  more.  She  would  write  to  him,  and  he  to  her.  She 
would  hear  of  him  from  the  world,  in  which  he  had  now  be- 
come distinguished,  and  she  would  read  his  books.  It  would 
be  very  hard  to  learn  to  live  away  from  him,  but  knowing  her 
28 


6'2(j  EROS    AND    ANTERO8. 

heart,  how  could  she  trust  herself  with  him  ?  and  so  her  mind 
was  fixed. 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  she  explained  her  purpose  to 
Walsingham.  A  difficulty  greatly  increased  by  his  surprise, 
and  pain.  As  she  anticipated,  he  submitted  to  her  decision, 
although  he  neither  concurred  in  its  propriety,  nor  appreciated 
the  reasons  by  which  it  was  sustained. 

"  Must  I,"  he  said,  looking  sadly  and  tenderly  in  her  face, 
''must  I,  then,  resign  my  little  girl  at  last?  No  power  on' 
earth  could  force  me  to  this  but  her  own  wish.  That  has 
always  been  to  me  an  irresistible  fiat." 

Viola,  with  downcast  eyes,  sat  trembling  and  blushing  like 
a  culprit,  as  he  continued — 

"  Bear  me  witness,  Viola,  that  since  I  knew  you,  your  well- 
being  and  happiness  has  been  the  aim  of  a  life  which  you  now 
leave  purposeless." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sobbed.  He 
smoothed  the  hair  from  her  hot  brow,  soothingly,  saying — "I 
would  not  make  my  darling  weep,  and  will  therefore  say  little 
more.  I  must  remind  her  that  she  leaves  me  of  her  own  deli- 
berate will,  and,  as  I  think,  without  sufficient  cause.  If,  here- 
after, she  should  be  less  happy  in  the  home  she  seeks  than  in 
the  one  she  left,  or  if  her  judgment,  cooler  and  more  matured, 
should  repent  the  decision  it  has  made,  then,  in  justice  to  me, 
I  ask  her  to  retrace  her  steps.  In  the  name  of  all  the  past,  I 
bid  her  remember  that  she  owes  me  that ! 

"  In  the  hope  that  that  time  will  come,  her  tastes  shall  con- 
tinue to  regulate  my  household — her  seat  shall  remain  vacant 


t 

LOST.  327 

at  the  board — her  place  by  the  hearthstone  be  consecrated  to 
her  coming.  Flowers  of  welcome  shall  garnish  my  hall  by 
day,  and  hospitable  fires  glow  therein  by  night.  And  night 
or  day — summer  or  winter,  expectation  shall  watch  in  my 
heart,  and  hope  whisper  ever,  'she  is  at  hand!' " 

Oh,  modest  womanhood  !  I  do  thee  reverence  !  thou  fragile, 
yet  strong  !  How  the  lonely,  longing,  loving,  passionate  heart, 
that  would  have  cast  itself  upon  his  noble  breast,  and  pulsed 
its  life  out,  was  by  thy  force  restrained !  In  that  hour  of 
sweet  temptation,  she  knew  that  her  resolve  was  right.  She 
dared  not  live  with  him  on  the  old  terms.  How  she  could 
have  lived  with  him  in  the  beautiful  bond  which  blends  two 
harmonious  lives  in  one  ! 

Women  are  excellent  dissemblers !  Viola  conquered  the 
tumult  in  her  heart,  and  hid  its  traces.  She  might  not  have 
been  successful,  but  that  Walsingham  was  absorbed  in  the 
same  battle  with  himself.  The  silent  constraint  of  the  one, 
the  mournful  tenderness  of  the  other,  gave  no  indication  of 
the  strife  within.  Why  did  not  some  sudden  flash  reveal  to 
each  the  struggling  heart  of  the  other?  This  might  have 
been,  had  his  love,  been  less  self-abnegating,  or  hers,  less 
modest. 

She  took  his  hand  as  might  a  daughter,  and  kissed  it  rever- 
ently (coldly,  he  thought,  but  his  pulse  was  hot),  and  fearing 
to  spoak,  left  him. 


328  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER   XLII. 

THE    LOVE    OF    MANHOOD. 

"Bear  this  life,  millions,  bravely  bear — 

Bear  this  life,  for  the  better  one. 
See  ye  the  stars  ?  a  life  is  there 
Where  the  reward  is  won." 

SCHILLER. 

"  JIM,"  said  Mrs.  Grey,  folding  her  hands  on  the  edge  of 
the  table,  where  the  bird  was  perched,  and  resting  her  chin 
upon  them,  that  she  might  look  into  his  wierd  eyes,  "  Jim, 
they  say  you  know  more'n  a  Christian  bird  ought j  for  good- 
ness' sake  relieve  my  mind,  can't  you?" 

His  wicked  little  eyes  gave  a  sardonic  twinkle. 

"  I'll  bet  my  knitting  sheath,"  said  his  confiding  mistress, 
gathering  up  her  yarn,  and  clicking  her  needles,  "  that  yon 
know  what  has  been  going  on,  down  in  the  town  yonder,  for  a 
week  past.  But  here  you  sit,  and  mope,  when  the  family's 
away,  and  the  bridge  they  was  to  come  home  by  gone,  and  the 
river  chock  full  of  ice,  so  that  no  mortal  can  cross  '}  and  not  a 


THE    LOVE    OF    MANHOOD.  329 

way  for  us  to  hear  of  'em  or  'em  to  hear  of  us,  unless  you'd 
stir  your  stumps  and  go  yourself,  with  my  kompliments  and 
all's  well,  and  hoping  they  is  the  same,  and  wouldn't  Mr.  Wal- 
singham  drop  a  line  by  the  bearer,  saying  so ;  which  would  be 
no  more'n  natural  in  you,  Jim." 

Jim  might  have  been  dead,  and  stuffed,  for  all  the  response 
he  made. 

"  You're  an  able,  but  not  a  willin',  which  is  a  bad  thing  to 
say  of  man,  or  beast,  or  bird  either,"  continued  the  old  lady, 
who  entertained  a  more  elevated  opinion  of  the  sagacity,  than 
the  good  feeling  of  her  precious  pet. 

Jim  stretched  his  wings  lazily,  and  shook  himself  into  the 
most  unseemly  heap  of  undressed  feathers  imaginable.  The 
bird  was  suffering  ennui. 

"  Gracious,  but  I  wish  /  had  'em !"  said  his  mistress, 
alluding  to  the  wings,  not  to  the  plumage.  "  I'd  go  where  I 
wanted  to  go,  independent  of  bridges. 

"But  no  matter  now,"  she  continued,  reverently,  "there's 
a  pair  awaitin'  for  me,  maybe  !  You'll  live  to  Metheusalem's 
age,  they  say,  and  flutter  and  flourish,  long  after  your  poor 
mistress  is  done  carin'  for  you;  but  those  wirtgs  of  yourn 
must  come  to  dust  at  last,  while  mine — well,  mine,  will  fly  so 
far  the  wings  of  time  hisself  shall  never  overtake." 

Exalted  as  this  view  of  her  superiority  appeared,  it  filled 
Mrs.  Grey  with  melancholy.  She  took  off  her  spectacles  and 
wiped  her  eyes,  while  Jim,  unmoved  by  her  touching  remarks, 
pecked  lazily  at  a  few  crumbs.  His  indifference  was  exasperat- 
ing. Mrs.  Grey  felt  it. 
28* 


380  EROS     AND     ANTEROS. 

"You  stone — you  rock — you  granite!"  she  said.  "You 
haint  human  feelin's  !  What  is  it  to  you,  whether  the  master 
and  mistress,  who  have  made  so  much  of  you,  ever  get  home 
again  ?  What  is  it  to  you,  if  I  should  be  dead  and  gone,  I'd 
like  to  know?" 

Upon  this  suggestion  there  was  an  instantaneous  change  in 
the  hird.  He  folded  his  glossy  feathers  smoothly  upon  his 
back,  gathered  his  wings  neatly  to  their  place,  and  hopped 
slowly,  solemnly  across  the  table.  Mrs.  Grey  was  in  the  habit 
of  giving  to  his  actions  her  own  interpretation.  There  was,  to 
her  affectionate  heart,  something  inexpressibly  touching  in  this 
movement.  It  signified,  that  when  she  was  dead  and  gone, 
Jim  would  be  chief  mourner ;  and  she  lifted  the  sombre  mute 
to  her  bosom,  ejaculating,  with  poetic  alliteration, 

"  You  blessed  black  brute  !" 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Walsingham  entered. 

After  a  week  of  anxiety,  loneliness,  and  apprehension,  and 
in  her  present  tender  mood,  the  surprise  was  too  much  for 
Mrs.  Grey,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

Common  as  are  these  demonstrations,  bachelors  always  find 
them  embarrassing.  Walsingham  was  fresh  from  his  interview 
with  Viola,  and  his  heart  was  full  of  its  own  bitterness ;  but 
he  could  not  but  pause  to  soothe  his  humble  friend,  and  listen 
to  her  account  of  the  mental  distresses,  the  lugubrious  pos- 
sibilities and  probabilities  which  had  beset  her  during  the 
absence  of  the  family. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  said  to  Jim — Jim,  says  I,  if  it  was  not  for 
the  bow  and  the  promise,  I  should  look  to  see  the  waters 


THE    LOVE    OF    MANHOOD.  331 

creeping,  creeping  up  the  rocks,  and  licking  the  Eyrie  door- 
step, as  in  Noah's  time." 

When  Mrs.  Grey  had  talked  her  fill,  and  informed  herself 
upon  various  points  of  interest  connected  with  the  world  from 
which  he  came,  Walsingham  made  his  escape  from  the  excel- 
lent, albeit  garrulous  lady,  and,  locking  the  door  of  his  retreat, 
was  at  last  alone. 

Alone  !  This  was  a  luxury.  Of  late,  he  had  lived  in  the 
presence  of  others.  The  cares,  the  courtesies,  the  amenities 
of  life  had  claimed  his  attention,  while  the  strongest  feelings 
of  his  nature  were  at  war  within  him.  So  perfect,  and  so 
practised  was  the  self-control  of  this  man,  that  he  rendered  to 
each  and  all  their  due.  To  Cola,  almost  womanly  forethought 
and  tenderness;  to  Helen,  playful  badinage;  to  Howard, 
putient  and  dignified  hearing ;  and  to  Viola — Viola,  in  whose 
presence  the  conflict  waged  mightiest — to  Viola,  calm  kindness, 
tender  reserve. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  the  time  for  him  to  lose  his'darling 
had  suddenly  overtaken  him.  Then  the  supremacy  over  self 
/almost  tottered  within  him,  and  he  sought  that  solitude  iu 
which  he  had  always  grown  strong. 

He  sat  in  Viola's  boudoir.  It  had  formerly  been  his  study, 
and  the  scene  of  many  a  midnight  vigil,  many  a  mental  con- 
flict, in  which  his  nobler  nature  never  failed  to  triumph  over 
the  temptations  which  beleaguered  it.  Here,  years  ago,  he 
had  read  the  letters  of  his  first  love,  and  taken  a  long,  sad, 
farewell  retrospect  of  that  era  of  life.  Here,  he  sat  in  the 
golden  twilights  of  summers  long  gone,  with  the  cherub  on 


332  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

his  knee,  whose  childish  eloquence  of  prattle  sunk  into  his 
heart  with  a  strange  potency,  dissipating  doubt,  gloom,  des- 
pondency, and  filling  him  with  the  hopes  and  ambitions  of  his 
kind.  Those  tiny,  dimpled,  helpless  hands !  how  had  they 
lifted  up  his  prostrate  manhood  in  that  bitter  time ! 

Here  it  was,  years  later,  that  his  heart  announced  its  second 
passion.  That  constant  heart  which,  while  overflowing  with 
tenderness  toward  the  gentler  sex,  had  so  long  cherished  the 
memory  of  a  dead  love.  Here,  began  that  war  of  noble,  de- 
voted, self-sacrificing  love,  over  the  baser  elements  of  feverish 
passion,  which  had  so  quietly  and  steadily  waged  in  his  great 
heart  through  the  later  period  of  his  life ;  and  here  he  came 
to  gather  strength  for  the  last  sacrifice. 

The  place  was  consecrated  to  her,  also,  for  here,  her  beauti- 
ful maidenhood  had  ripened  to  richest  bloom.  Here  lie  the 
books  which  were  late  her  companions  and  teachers.  There, 
tne  work-basket,  filled  with  little  keepsakes,  and  implements 
of  feminine  industry.  He  looked  over  its  contents  with  a  feel- 
ing of  tender  reverence.  The  taper  thimble  seemed  part  of 
the  slender  finger  it  fitted.  The  box  of  tapes,  with  its  French 
painting  of  flowers  upon  the  lid — ;  its  neatly  arranged,  untan- 
gled contents,  told  him  of  that  taste,  which  associated  with 
elegance,  and  beauty,  the  humblest  concerns  of  life ;  of  the 
neatness,  harmony,  and  order  that  waited  upon  her  footsteps. 

She  was  going  to  leave  him ;  and  all  these,  her  possessions, 
would  be  gone  also.  He  looked  around  the  adorned  chamber, 
'in  his  mind's  eye  shutting  out  all  that  pertained  to  her.  It 
looked  so  barren,  so  ;are,  so  desolate,  that  his  heart  chilled. 


THE    LOVE    OP    MANHOOD.  333 

Again,  his  thoughts  grew  retrospective,  and  he  saw  in  that 
survey  of  the  past,  that  his  life  had  not  been  vain.  All  that 
he  had  proposed  to  himself  had  been  achieved.  By  patient 
effort  he  had  won  from  nature  such  revelations,  as  lifted  the 
burdens  from  many  a  bowed  back,  and  thus,  he  had  been  a 
benefactor  of  his  kind. 

He  had  won  reputation.  Not  the  ephemeral  fame  which 
fills  the  public  eye  and  ear,  and  perishes  with  its  generation ; 
but  that  larger  renown  which  one  age  pronounces  to  another, 
and  which  echoes  to  distant  times. 

Dearer  than  all  this,  he  had  filled  one  young  life  with  hap- 
piness. He  had  drawn  around  his  beloved  an  invisible  circle, 
over  which  sorrow  had  never  passed.  From  out  this  circle, 
and  from  his  protection,  she  was  about  to  step,  and  his  work 
was  done. 

The  teeming  future  had  suddenly  grown  blank — aimless. 
Life  worthless,  and  inexpressibly  burdensome. 

To  the  brain,  which  had  late  been  busy  with  grand  schemes, 
the  heart  which  had  pulsed  with  high  resolves,  there  had  come 
a  great  pause ! 

Hopes,  aims,  aspirations  which  had  filled  the  citadel  of  life 
with  the  music  of  prophetic  voices,  were  stricken  mute.  Rea- 
son, investigation,  thought — the  intellectual  athlete — were 
palsied.  Over  all  the  nameless  attributes  of  man,  which,  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave,  are  busy  with  their  appointed  travail, 
there  had  fallen  a  mighty  hush — like  that  which  reigned  in 
the  enchanted  city,  where  all,  from  the  prince  on  his  throne 
to  the  artisan  at  labour,  were  turned  to  stone. 


334  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

Then,  amid  the  silence  and  desolation,  the  last  hope  lifted 
up  her  voice,  and  discoursed  of  death! 

Death,  the  deliverer  of  overtasked  and  -wearied  men !  The 
peace-angel,  who  gathereth  clamouring  cares  into  eternal 
silence,  and  droppeth  healing  from  his  wings. 

Would  not  this  stern  benefactor  come  speedity,  and  lift  from 
his  drooping  shoulders  the  burden  of  an  aimless,  loveless, 
hopeless  life  ? 

"Why,  now  that  the  affluence  of  existence  had  been  spent, 
should  he  endure  its  poverty  ?  Why  should  the  cup  which 
palled,  be  drained  to  its  last  dregs?  Did  not  his  own  hand 
hold  the  spells  which  death  obeyed  ? 

Oh,  night  of  baleful  extremity !  Oh,  false,  insidious  soph- 
istry !  Instinct  of  right,  up,  and  prevail ! 

The  intellectual  athlete  breaking  from  their  thrall,  wrestled 
with  the  temptation  and  subdued  it. 

God  hath  not  taken  you  into  his  counsel,  or  told  you  where- 
fore ye  were  made,  wherefore  ye  suffer.  The  great  ends 
appointed  you,  shall  ye  not  do  them,  though  they  be  but  bur- 
den and  travail  ?  If  earthly  happiness  be  no  part  of  the  plan 
of  your  creation,  shall  ye  forfeit  the  eternity  of  hope  in  rank 
rebellion  ?  And  if  life  be  intolerable,  how  say  you  die,  to 
that  which  God  hath  bidden  live  for  ever? 

The  hand  which  made  all  space,  and  the  multitudinous 
worlds  which  gem  it,  from  the  centre  to  the  illimitable  verge, 
created  you,  oh,  man  !  In  the  transient  sunbeam  of  time, 
mote-like  you  float ;  yet  when  that  sunbeam  shall  be  darkened, 
aud  heaven  and  earth  shall  have  passed  away,  and  the  worlds 


THE    LOVE    OF     MANHOOD.  b-.!» 

of  primal  creation  shall  have  crumbled  to  original  chaos,  ye 
will  remain.  Against  a  principle  of  life  thus  indestructible, 
dare  you  lift  your  hand  ? 

Shatter  to  dust  the  casket  in  which  it  is  enshrined ;  and, 
ushered  unbidden  into  peopled  space,  it  shall  flit  from  sphere 
to  sphere,  for  ever,  filling  eternity  with  the  greatness  of  its 
complaint. 

Like  a  vision  of  the  night,  that  hour  of  temptation  and 
conflict  passed,  and  the  morning  clothed  Walsingham  with 
endurance. 


EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

THE  LOVE  OF  YOUTH. 

"  The  woman  yonder,  there's  no  use  of  life 
But  just  to  obtain  her !    Heap  earth's  woes  in  one, 
And  bear  them — make  a  pile  of  all  earth's  joys, 
And  spurn  them  as  they  help  or  help  not  here  ; 
Only  obtain  her!" 

IN  A  BALCONY. 

Now,  during  these  eventful  times,  the  irascible  Captain's 
temper  had  grown  exceeding  gentle.  His  stout  hand,  hy  the 
sick-bed,  acquired  a  nurse's  cunning ;  his  mood  was  tamed  to 
a  woman's  patience.  Dividing  his  time  between  Cola  and 
Howard,  who  was  also  ill,  he  meekly  obeyed  the  whims  of 
each,  oblivious  of  his  usual  expletives.  Quite  cut  down,  was 
the  Captain,  by  the  suffering  of  his  young  friends  ! 

The  advent  of  the  "second  Richmond  upon  the  field"  occa- 
sioned the  Captain's  gentler  virtues  a  few  convulsive  throes, 
but  he  contented  himself  with  glowering  fearfully  upon  that 
interloper  when  he  crossed  his  path,  which,  to  do  him  justice, 


THE    LOVE    OF    YOUTH.  337 

he  did  not  often  do.  Not  that  he  avoided  the  redoubtable  sea- 
hero,  or  was  in  the  least  disturbed  by  his  expressive  glances. 
To  tell  the  truth,  his  own  regards  were  so  steadfastly  fixed 
upon  the  clouds  of  heaven,  the  mountain  mists,  or  some  other 
prospect,  equally  distant  and  intangible,  that  the  interesting 
play  of  feature,  with  which  the  Captain  favoured  him,  was  as' 
altogether  wasted  as  are  pearls  before  swine. 

But  when  Captain  Walsingham  fully  understood,  and  be- 
lieved, that  Viola  was  about  to  withdraw  from  his  brother's  pro- 
tection, and  accept  the  guardianship  of  a  stranger,  then — then 
— then  what  an  outburst  was  there !  Captain  Walsingham, 
in  his  wrath,  modelled  himself  after  a  storm  at  sea.  Being 
familiar  with  elemental  strife,  he  imitated  its  fury  with  com- 
plete success.  It  is  unnecessary  that  I  should  describe  it;  nay, 
impossible  !  When  the  tumult  died  away,  in  low  undergrowls, 
Viola  was  like  one  stranded. 

"  To  think,"  muttered  the  Captain,  like  retiring  thunder, 
"  to  think  of  the  ingratitude  of  the  child !  the  utter  heart- 
lessness  !  the  cruelty,  one  might  say  !" 

"  Don't  say  it,  uncle  Captain  !"  she  pleaded. 

"  Just  like  her  sex !"  he  continued.  "  No  more  affection 
than  a  tabby  cat.  Pretty,  smooth,  domestic  animals  are  they 
all,  purring  at  your  hearth  one  day,  and  at  your  enemy's  the 
next ;  and  rending,  wantonly,  the  hand  raised  to  caress ! 
S-s-cat !  get  out  of  my  sight,  child  !  They  say  you're  hand- 
some, do  they?  Handsome  is  that  handsome  does;  and,  to 
me,  you  are  not  pleasant  to  look  upon  !" 
29 


ode  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"  Do  not — do  not !"  she  said,  deprecatingly..  u  Mr.  Wal- 
singham  was  not  thus  harsh." 

"  Arthur  ?  no  !  I'll  swear,  he  was  not !  He'd  cut  his  heart 
out,  and  lay  it  at  your  feet,  if  you  bade  him  !  His  whole  life 
has  been  a  sacrifice  to  you  and,  yours ;  and  now  you  coolly  de- 
sert him  as  did  .your  mother  before  you  !" 

"What  is  that?"  said  Viola,  quickly.  "What  had  iny 
mother  to  do  with  Mr.  Walsiugham  ?" 

"  None  of  your  business  !"  responded  the  Captain,  promptly, 
as  with  a  great  bite,  he  thrust  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 

The  Captain,  we  are  sorry  to  confess,  was  not  polite. 

Taking  advantage  of  the  silence  that  followed  this  slip  of 
the  tongue,  Viola  placed  herself  on  the  defensive,  urging  upon 
the  Captain's  consideration  some  of  the  motives  which  in- 
fluenced her. 

"  Pshaw  !"  roared  he,  in  reply.  li  Don't  talk  to  me  about 
tenderness  for  the  memory  of  the  man  that's  dead  and  gone  ! 
He  never  showed  any  for  you  !  And  then  all  this  squeamish- 
ness  and  delicacy  about  this  poor  anatomy,  who,  I'll  be  bound, 
has  no  more  of  the  feelings  than  the  appearance  of  a  mnn. 
You  thought  he'd  feel  badly,  did  you  ?  It  never  occurred  to 
you  that  Arthur  Walsingham's  great  heart  would  be  rent ;  or 
old  Uncle  Captain  be  left  joyless;  or  the  Eyrie  be  desolate  as 
Tadmor  in  the  wilderness !  TJgh  !  ugh !  Yet  one  might  have 
hoped  they  would  be  considered  first,  before  this  miserable 
shadow  of  a  man,  with  a  shadow  of  a  claim,  who  comes  spnok- 
iity  about  like  an  evil  spirit  condemned  to  walk  the  earth, 
when  better  ghosis  are  in  paradise  !" 


THE    I  OVE     OF    YOUTH.  339 

The  Captain  paused,  quite  c  it  of  breath,  and  Viola  begged 
for  mercy  at  his  hands. 

"  You'll  break  my  heart,  if  you  talk  so  to  me,  Uncle 
Captain  !  You  know  I  love  you,  and — and  Mr.  Walsingham ; 
you  know  I  would  gladly  die  for  you,  if  God  permitted;  you 
know  I  shall  never  be  again  as  happy  as  I  have  been  in  the 
dear  old  Eyrie,  where  you  brought  me  a  little  child.  Oh, 
forgive  me !  pity  me  !  and  believe  that  I  am  acting  for  the 
best." 

"  You'll  not  act  for  the  best,  I  can  tell  you,"  responded  the 
Captain,  in  a  mollified  tone,  "if  you  follow  that  will-o'-the- 
wisp  !  A  pretty  tramp  over  the  waste  places  of  life  you'll 
have ;  and  be  landed  in  quicksands  and  quagmires  at  last — 
you  that  have  been  carried  over  the  rough  paths  so  tenderly. 
Well,  well !  somebody  else  did  it  before  you,  and  called  on 
Walsingham  in  the  end,  as  you  will  do." 

"  Dear  Uncle  Captain,  speak  kindly  to  me  !  and  what  is 
this  about  my  mother  ?" 

"  I  sha'n't  tell  you  !" 

"I  wonder  if  Mr.  Walsingham  will  not  tell  me?" 

"Ask  him!"  exclaimed  the  Captain,  bitterly.  "'Twill 
comfort  him  to  talk  about  it,  no  doubt." 

Pale,  sick,  and  glooomy,  Howard  Irving  had  reclined  upon 
his  sofa,  and  listened  to  this  lively  discourse.  He  found  it 
quite  inspiriting,  no  doubt,  for  he  raised  his  languid  head, 
then  his  recumbent  figure,  and  lastly  approached  Viola,  to  add 
his  earnest  remonstrance  to  the  Captain's. 


340  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

"  Indeed,  Viola,  you  r.re  wrong !  You  have  not  a  friend 
who  sustains  you,  in  the  step  you  propose  taking." 

She  noticed  him  no  more  than  she  would  have  noticed  the 
buzzing  of  a  humming  bee. 

"  It  would  be  headstrong  and  unbecoming,  for  a  young  and 
inexperienced  girl,  to  take  such  an  important  step,  unsustain*ed 
by  the  judgment  of  older  persons." 

She  looked  at  him  uneasily,  as  though  the  bee  was  buzzing 
too  near,  and  might  presently  sting. 

"  Viola,"  he  continued,  lowering  his  voice,  "  for  my  sake, 
stay !" 

The  colour  mounted  to  her  face,  and  she  bit  her  lips.  The 
sting  had  come. 

"  And  why  for  your  sake,  if  not  for  his  ?"  she  said  aloud. 
"  I  owe  you  nothing  !" 

"  Nothing  I"  he  exclaimed,  reproachfully.  He  thought  of 
all  the  love  he  had  given  her.  Was  that  nothing  ? 

She  thought  of  it  too,  perhaps,  for  she  said,  kindly  and 
frankly,  "  Forgive  me,  Howard,  for  I  know  not  what  I  say, 
being  sore  beset." 

"  Let  her  alone !"  said  the  Captain,  and  gathering  up  his 
hat  and  stick,  he  shook  the  dust  off  his  feet  and  departed. 

I  am  sorry  to  record  that  Captain  Walsingham,  usually 
open  as  the  day,  was  here,  guilty  of  duplicity.  At  this 
moment  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  de  trop.  That,  in  his 
absence,  his  young  auxiliary  might  present  for  her  considera- 
tion, such  arguments  as  are  most  potent  with  the  female  heart, 


THE    LOVE    OP    YOUTH.  311 

and  therefore  lie  retired — thinking,  "  Here's  a  chance  for  you, 
my  boy  !" — saying, 

"  Let  her  alone  !" 

Let  us  extol  the  Captain's  shrewdness,  if  not  his  sincerity ; 
for,  as  Viola,  with  a  word  of  excuse,  was  following  him, 
Howard  exclaimed, 

"  Stay,  stay,  Viola  !  I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you." 

As  though  the  trials  she  was  now  enduring  were  not  enough ! 

She  put  up  her  hands,  the  cowardly  creature,  and  cried, 

"  Oh,  Howard,  don't !" 

"  Dont  ?"  he  echoed,  sharply.     "  Of  what  are  you  afraid  ?" 

She  was  again  offended  by  his  impatience  (we  had  almost 
written  impertinence),  as  before,  by  his  assumption ;  and,  with 
recovered  dignity,  assured  him  that  she  was  afraid  of  nought, 
but  was  constrained  to  bid  him  "  good-morning." 

"  No,"  said  he,  placing  his  back  against  the  door,  "  not  till 
you  hear  me."  And,  in  his  own  vehement  way,  he  told  her 
how  he  had  loved  her.  How  she  had  been  the  angel  of  his 
boyhood — the  star  of  his  youth — the  all,  which  his  heart 
coveted  in  life ;  and  wooed  her  to  stay  with  them — to  be  his 
wife — the  joy  of  his  heart — the  comfort  of  all  who  loved  her. 
Growing  warmer  and  wilder,  he  prayed  her  to  pour  the  gentle 
influence  of  her  love  upon  his  turbulent  nature — to  lay  her 
pure  white  hand  upon  the  mane  of  passion,  and  control  its 
raging.  He  conjured  her,  by  all  those  years  in  which  his  heart 
had  offered  tribute — by  the  blent  morning  of  their  lives — by 
the  memories  they  held  in  cnnmon,  to  stand  between  him  and 
the  swift  destruction  which  yawned  for  him,  should  he  lose 
29* 


342  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

her — to  save  him  from  frenzy — from  despair — to  save  him 
from  his  fearful  self! 

She  had  turned  to  listen,  like  one  at  bay,  resenting  the  con- 
straint which  detained  her.  But,  as  the  torrent  of  words 
foamed  forth,  she  trembled,  melted,  and  wept.  She,  who 
loved  so  well,  could  feel  for  him,  although  there  was  small  re- 
semblance between  the  humble,  enduring,  patient  love  which 
filled  her  bosom  with  a  sweet  content — which  asked  nought, 
and  was  sufficient  unto  itself;  and  the  imperious,  exacting 
passion  which  exalted  itself,  and  clamoured  for  recompense. 

In  what  did  this  man's  love  differ  from  Walsingham's  ? 
There  was  a  sympathy  between  their  strong  natures,  although 
one  was  deep  and  earnest ;  the  other,  vehement  and  wild.  The 
one  sought  only  to  minister  to  her  happiness  and  good ;  the 
other,  to  his  passion. 

With  one  she  was  the  end ;  with  the  other,  the  means. 

In  the  one  heart,  love  offered  up  its  continual  prayer, 
" guard  her — guide  her — bless  her!"  In  the  other,  it  cla- 
moured, "give  her  to  me!" 

The  last  is  the  type  of  its  kind. 

"These  are  the  voices  that  have  moaned  and  muttered 
within  my  bosom  like  summer  thunder !  These  are  the 
thoughts  that,  like  electric  flame,  have  blinded  my  vision,  and 
consumed  my  peace !  They  have  broken  into  language  at 
last,  and  bespeak  your  soul's  responsive  echoes !  They  have 
flashed  their  quick  contagion  upon  your  heart !  Your  tears 
reveal  it !  Wsep  on — weep  on  !  those  drops  are  to  me  a  deT 
of  benedictior  " 


THE    LOVE    OF    YOUTH.  343 

"They  witness  that  love  is  omnipotent !" 

"No — no — no!"  she  cried,  "dear  Howard,  I  do — I  do  not 
love  you!" 

"  Why  then  do  you  call  nie  dear  ?"  he  cried,  exultant.  "  See 
now,  how  your  own  words  betray  you  !  How  your  own  tears 
testify  against  you  !  Yet  you  would  hide  away  your  heart,  and 
coquette,  and  trifle,  until  all  is  lost." 

Audacious  lover  !  But  for  the  pity  which  your  love  inspires, 
and  which  it  mistakes  for  a  responsive  feeling;  but  for  the 
kindly  friendship  which  all  her  life  had  cherished,  you  might 
now  receive  a  rude  enlightenment. 

"Do  not  misunderstand  me,"  she  implored.  "  You  have 
moved  me  strangely,  and  I  weep.  The  affection  which  I  feel, 
and  acknowledge  for  you,  is  not  what  you  demand.  I  am  sin- 
cere— I  arn  earnest — I  am  above  the  coquettish  arts  of  which 
you  accuse  me.  I  beg  you  to  subdue  these  unhappy  feelings, 
and  pass  on  to  better  things." 

He  sank  upon  his  sofa,  hiding  his  face  in  his  folded  arms. 

"  In  the  future,  when  this  storm  shall  have  lulled  and  died 
away,  and  this  hour  be  remembered  as  an  uneasy  dream; 
when  the  great  pursuits  of  active  manhood  shall  engross  your 
energies,  and  a  calmer,  happier  love  beguile  your  heart, 
then,  as  a  sister,  I  would  be  remembered,  for,  as  a  sister,  I 
have  loved  you." 

The  departing  rustle  of  her  garments  mingled  with  these 
accents,  and  h  3  was  alone. 


344  EROS    AND    ANTEROS, 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

SHOWS  HOW  THE  DEVIL  SEEKS  TO  ESTABLISH  HIS  DOMINION 
IN  THE  HEART  THAT  INCLINES  TO  HIM  A  HAIR'S-BREADTH. 

COLA,  although  making  rapid  strides  toward  health,  would 
not  be,  for  some  time,  strong  enough  to  travel.  Viola,  too, 
needed  a  few  weeks  of  preparation  for  the  change  of  home 
upon  which  she  had  determined;  and,  for  the  present,  the 
man-phantom  disappeared. 

While  Cola  grew  strong  and  well,  Howard,  who  had  not 
been  dangerously  ill,  still  suffered  from  languor  and  dejection. 
His  constitution,  naturally  recuperative,  failed  to  recover  from 
the  shock  of  that  fearful  night. 

Happiness  and  an  untroubled  conscience  are  powerful  resto- 
ratives, but  this  young  man  possessed  them  not.  A  mind  at 
ease  is  the  best  tonic.  His  was  a  prey  to  disappointment,  and 
remorse. 

He  had  laboured  to  save  the  life  of  Conway.  He  had  re- 
joiced in  the  rescue.  He  saw  him  removed  from  his  path  as 
a  rival,  and  placed  by  his  side  in  the  bond  of  a  double  brother- 


TEMPTATIONS    OF    THE    DEVIL.  845 

hood,  as  the  betrothed  of  his  sister,  and  the  brother  of  his 
beloved,  yet  he  no  louger  loved  him. 

He  could  not  forgive  him  the  guilt,  the  misery,  the  mental 
abasement  of  which  he  was  the  innocent  cause.  He  could  not 
forgive  him  the  knowledge  which  he  must  possess — which  he 
alone  could  possess — of  the  fell  passion  of  that  night.  He  was 
impatient  of  the  feeling  of  humiliation,  and  restraint,  which 
possessed  him  in  the  presence  of  this  injured  friend.  The 
world  seemed  too  small  to  contain  him,  and  the  man  who  knew 
his  sinful  secret,  and  so  he  came  to  entertain  a  regret  that  he 
had  not  died. 

Although  he  had  not  quenched  a  human  life,  conscience 
accused  him  of  the  guilt  of  homicide,  and  he  bore  within  him 
the  brand  of  Cain.  Tales  of  horror  and  traditionary  murders 
grew  replete  with  interest.  The  inception  of  hate,  the  insi- 
dious progress  of  temptation,  the  allurements  and  incitements 
leading  with  terrible  certainty  to  crime — all  the  sad  history 
of  human  progress  in  depravity  absorbed  his  thought.  Not 
with  the  just  condemnation  of  offended  virtue,  did  he  thus 
dwell  upon  acts  of  moral  turpitude.  An  unwholesome  sym- 
pathy with  the  criminal,  usurped  the  place  of  generous  indig- 
nation in  his  mind,  and  he  became  the  apologist  for  crime. 
The  fallacious  sophistries  with  which  misguided  men  sustain 
their  courage  to  some  bitter  end,  or  palliate  and  justify  enor- 
mities at  which  virtue  weeps,  entangled  his  mind  in  their 
treacherous  maze. 

In  such  a  baleful  atmosphere  of  thought,  his  moral  charac- 
ter deteriorated;  his  judgment  of  right  became  impaired,  and 


346  EROS    AND    ANTER08. 

the  society  of  the  good  ai  d  pure  ceased  to  charm  him.  Their 
attributes  seemed  to  reproach— their  sentiments  to  condemn 
him.  The  truisms  of  virtue,  on  the  lips  of  her  children,  like 
pointed  personalities,  were  resented,  combated,  argued  against 
with  the  bitterness  of  self-justification,  until  the  sensitive 
sophist,  by  slow  degrees,  convinced  himself  that  wrong  was 
right,  and  demolished  the  preservative  land-marks  between 
good  and  evil,  once  carefully  established  in  his  mind. 

Twin-born  with  this  sudden  indulgence  for  the  criminal, 
was  a  harshness  of  judgment,,  toward  those  who  for  virtue 
were  eminent.  Their  deeds  were  regarded  with  jealous  scru- 
tiny; their  motives  ungraciously  impugned,  and  their  frail- 
ties probed  to  the  quick.  Thus  tearing  down  the  exalted, 
and  elevating  the  debased,  he  played  the  part  of  a  moral 
leveller,  ignorant,  the  while,  how  much  his  own  character  de- 
teriorated. 

With  the  proneness  of  such  natures  to  suspicion  and  injus- 
tice, he  persuaded  himself  that  Cola  still  stood  between  him 
and  his  love.  That  Cola  hated  him,  for  the  suffering  he  had 
caused,  and  influenced  his  sister  against  his  suit.  That  he 
had  told  her  the  history  of  that  night,  and  warned  her  against 
giving  herself  to  one  who  yielded  as  readily  as  he,  to  the 
ruinous  impulses  of  desperation. 

Meanwhile  poor  Cola,  whose  open  nature  furnished  him  with 
no  key  to  the  operations  of  Howard's  mind,  had  never  for  a 
moment  suspected  him  of  hatred  or  malice.  His  nocturnal 
voyage  was  attributed  to  accident ;  and  Howard,  noble  fellow, 
had,  by  superhuman  exertions,  saved  him.  Hence,  with  a 


TEMPTATIONS    OF    THE    DEVIL.  347 

heart  full  of  gratitude,  he  amused  the  hours  of  convalescence 
by  weaving  the  brightest  visions  of  romance,  in  which  he  uni- 
formly gave  his  sister  to  Howard,  as  the  reward  of  many  vir- 
tues, receiving  Helen  in  return,  as  the  crown  of  his  own.  Then, 
with  parental  benedictions,  and  the  approbation  of  the  world, 
they  trod  o'er  thornless  roses,  and  were  for  ever  happy,  etc., 
etc.,  etc. 

The  current  of  the  story  bears  us  on.  It  does  not  fall  within 
its  scope  to  show,  by  what  influences  the  morbid  mind  became 
healed,  the  wild  passions  tamed.  The  inevitable  necessities 
of  Fate  subdue  the  most  rebellious ;  Time,  and  circumstance, 
are  mighty  to  chasten.  Through  suffering,  his  heart  became 
purged — healed.  The  mirage  was  lifted  from  his  path,  and 
the  old  land-marks  again  guided  his  pilgrimage. 


348  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER    XLV. 
A    MAIDEN'S    MUSING s. 

"  Lo !  the  cressets  of  the  night  are  waning, 

Old  Orion  hastens  from  the  sky  ; 
Only  thou  of  all  things  are  remaining, 
Unrefreshed  by  slumber — thou  and  I !" 

AYTOUN. 

INEXPRESSIBLY  sweet,  beyond  anything  Viola  had  yet  ex- 
perienced of  Eyrie  life,  were  the  weeks  of  reprieve.  Walsing- 
ham  devoted  all  his  hours  to  her.  There  was  so  much  to  be 
said  to  this  tenderly-sheltered  child,  who  was  going  forth  of 
her  own  will,  a  wanderer  in  the  wide  world.  She,  and  Cola 
were  so  young,  and  inexperienced,  and  their  protector  so  unfit- 
ted for  the  care  of  such  as  she  !  Thinking  of  the  quicksands 
of  life,  he  sought  to  inspire  her  with  a  more  worldly  and  prac- 
tical wisdom  than  had  before  seemed  needful.  She  listened 
to  his  descriptions  of  life  in  crowds;  of  characters  such  as 
throng  the  world's  highway ;  of  attributes  developed  by  the 


A  MAIDEN'S  MUSINGS.  349 

wrestle  of  busy  life,  as  some  fair  novice  in  her  cell,  hears  the 
story  of  distant  battles. 

With  her  foot  upon  the  threshold  of  the  world,  this  prac- 
tical knowledge  charmed  her  more  than  his  lore.  His  dis- 
course was  a  proverbial  philosophy.  Every  sentence  was  held 
by  memory  as  a  spell  against  some  future  ill. 

She  had  feared  he  might  condemn  her  resolution,  as  the 
Captain  had  done ;  and  perhaps  in  his  heart  accuse  her  of 
ingratitude.  That  he  would  never  use  to  her  a  word  so  harsh, 
she  knew.  His  manner  soothed  that  apprehension.  Very 
sad  was  it,  as  of  one  pre-occupied  by  sorrow;  reserved,  but 
tender.  The  sadness  she  longed  to  comfort.  To  the  ten- 
derness her  own  gushed  responsive,  but  the  reserve  defined 
the  position  he  desired  her  to  occupy,  and  she  meekly  ac- 
cepted it. 

Slowly,  surely,  steadily,  inexorably,  day  after  day  faded. 
Step  by  step  the  hour  of  farewell  advanced.  Cola  was  now 
quite  well,  and  but  few  days  remained.  One  night,  feeling 
too  much  excited  for  sleep,  she  sat  by  her  casement,  watching 
the  light  in  the  window  of  the  turret  study.  Often,  when 
Walsingham's  work  was  in  progress,  she  had  watched  that 
light  far  into  the  night,  with  a  patient,  distant  sympathy  such 
as  love,  offers  knowledge.  Wondering,  the  while,  what  great 
thoughts  were  in  travail,  and  believing  they  would  one  dfty 
shine  upon  the  world,  as  did  that  solitary  ray  in  her  heart. 

Then  she  remembered  how,  when  the  morning  came,  he 
would  read  to  her  the  product  of  nocturnal  labour,  and  listen 
to  her  comments  with  respectful  interest,  as  if  they  were 


350  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

worthy  the  attention  of  one  as  great  as  he.  Bvy  he  did  not 
seem  great,  then,  as  the  world  had  since  proclain-jl  him,  else 
she  would  not  have  dared  to  offer  so  freely,  her  girlish 
thoughts. 

He  crossed  the  apartment  to  a  case  of  book.ij  took  one, 
and  seated  himself  by  the  light.  She  could  see  he  was 
reading. 

How  she  had  always  loved  to  hear  him  read !  It  was  his 
custom  to  read  aloud  when  alone  j  not  with  any  effort  of  elo- 
cutionary art,  but  with  a  low  murmur,  like  that  of  wind 
among  pines,  or  distant  waterfalls. 

It  was  long  since  she  had  heard  him.  She  might  never 
hear  him  more ! 

Nay,  she  must,  she  would  hear  him  once  again — now! 

Seizing  a  shawl,  she  hastily  left  her  room,  descended  the 
stairs,  unfastened  the  outer  door,  and  stood  beneath  the  stars. 
Very  quietly  she  crossed  the  yard.  Very  quietly  she  ascended 
the  study  steps,  seating  herself  upon  the  topmost  one. 

Yes,  he  was  reading.  Through  the  door  came  the  well- 
remembered  music,  in  broken  snatches ;  now  low  and  mourn- 
ful— now  lost — now  rising  higher  and  higher,  like  the  wail  of 
an  aeolian  harp. 

From  earliest  childhood  she  had  loved  this  music.  It  came 
to  her  now,  like  the  voice  of  summers  gone.  It  was  an  incan- 
tation, summoning  back  the  pageant  of  her  early  life,  silent, 
yet  affluent.  One  glorious  June  day,  in  childish  frolic,  near 
his  window,  that  murmur  had  reached  her  j  scarce  noticed  then, 
yet  memory  had  kept  the  echo ;  and  now,  the  fallen  blossoms 


A  MAIDEN'S  MUSINGS.  351 

of  that  distant  year  wafted  fresh  odours  round  her ;  bees  irank 
of  their  nectar,  birds  cooed  on  their  branches,  and  the  sum- 
mer sunshine  of  a  day  for  ever  faded,  warmed  her  soul — in 
this  winter  night,  so  dark  and  cold ! 

Again,  in  winter,  when  he  was  busy  with  his  books  by  the 
fireside,  and  she  sat  singing  to  her  doll,  weaving  wild  snatches 
of  childish  song,  how  those  tones  would  rise  and  swell,  migg- 
ling  with  her  melody  like  the  deep  bass  of  some  grand  organ ! 
;Twas  strange  how  their  voices  blended,  while  their  thoughts 
were  far  asunder.  He,  student-like,  absorbed  in  abstruse 
themes — she,  to  the  insensate  image  in  her  arms  carolling 
dreamily  such  fragments  of  poetic  thought  as  drop,  gem-like, 
from  the  lips  of  imaginative  childhood. 

Loud  and  more  loud  rolled  the  murmured  music !  More 
broken  and  fragmentary  became  the  unstrung  pearls  of  thought ! 
The  well-built  fire  danced,  leaped,  and  roared,  sending  showers 
of  sparklets  upward,  and  filling  the  genial  room  with  warmth 
and  light. 

'Twas  a  glorious  fire,  no  doubt,  to  be  so  well  remembered, 
but,  alas  !  it  had  died  to  ashes  years  agone,  and  the  night  was 
bitter  cold. 

Clear  and  frosty  was  it,  and  the  stars  were  abroad  in  heaven. 
The  constellations  which  greeted  her  when  she  came  forth  had 
set ;  while  she,  with  her  shawl  gathered  round  her,  her  head 
against  the  door — with  music  in  her  ear,  and  visions  in  her 
heart,  had  fallen  aslee'i ! — and  the  nig  'it  sc  bitter  cold  I 


352  EROS     AND     ANTEROS. 


CHAPTER    XLVI. 

VIOLA   WON. 

"  For  many  a  cheek,  of  paler  hue, 

Hath  blushed  'neath  passion's  kiss  ; 
And  many  an  eye,  of  lesser  light, 
Hath  caught  its  fire  from  bliss." 

HEMANS. 

"  Be  a  god,  and  hold  me 

With  a  charm ; 
Be  a  man,  and  fold  me 
With  thine  arm." 

BROWNING. 

THE  moon  had  risen  when  Walsingham  came  forth.  As 
he  opened  the  door,  something  fell  heavily  at  his  feet.  His 
heart  told  him  'twas  human.  Frozen  to  death,  perhaps,  with 
but  that  portal,  between  the  poor  unfortunate,  and  warmth,  and 
life. 

He  bore  it  beyond  the  shadow  of  the  building,  and  turned 
the  face  up  to  the  moon.  Rigid  and  cold,  with  her  long,  fair 


VIOLA    WON.  353 

hair  floating  in  the  frosty  air,  and  her  pallid  features  in  repose, 
which  might  be  eternal,  was  Viola ! 

****** 

Viola's  adventure  perplexed  the  minds  of  her  friends. 
Why  she  had  been  abroad  that  inclement  night,  and  being 
abroad,  why  she  had  not  returned,  finding  how  cold  it  was, 
instead  of  stupidly  perishing  within  a  moment's  walk  of  her 
warm  chamber,  was  inexplicable.  Good  G-rey,  believed  she 
had  walked  in  her  sleep,  and  Captain  Ben  adopted  a  theory 
of  temporary  aberration.  Walsingham,  while  rejecting  these 
opinions,  could  not  invent  anything  more  plausible  or  satisfac- 
tory. 

He  determined,  however,  upon  obliging  the  young  lady  to 
give  an  account  of  herself.  So,  when  they  were  alone,  he 
asked  her : — 

"Viola,  will  you  not  explain  to  me  the  circumstances  thab 
have  so  puzzled,  and  distressed  us  all  ?" 

She  blushed  violently,  and  seemed  painfully  embarrassed. 

"I  will  tell  you,  certainly,"  she  said;  "but  I  am  so  morti- 
fied— so  ashamed  of  my  folly,  that — " 

She  paused.  He  did  not  suggest  the  word  she  wanted, 
and  so  she  had  to  begin  again  : — 

"The  foolish  truth  is  this:  I  saw  you  from  my  window, 
reading  in  the  study;  and  thinking  I  might  never  hear  you 
again,  I  ran  down  to  the  door  to  listen." 

"  Was  I  reading  aloud  ?" 

"  Yes ;  you  always  do,  when  you  think  yourself  alone." 

"  Do  I  ?    I  did  not  know  it.    Well,  did  you  not  feel  cold  ?" 


354  EROS    AND    ANTEHOS. 

"  Yes,  a  little;  but  I  sat  by  the  door,  listening  to  the  mur- 
mur from  within,  and  thinking  how  from  a  child  I  had  heard 
your  voice  thus,  and  how  I  should  hear  it  no  more.  Then  all 
the  beautiful,  happy  time,  that  is  past,  rolled  before  me. 
While  I  heard  your  voice,  I  felt  held  back  to  the  old  life,  and 
it  seemed  that  when  I  walked  beyond  the  reach  of  its  accents, 
all  would  be  over,  and  a  blank,  barren  future  would  begin. 
So,  dreading  to  take  the  first  step,  and  shrinking  from  what  is 
to  come,  I  lingered  a  little  longer  and  a  little  longer.  Oh, 
excuse  me,"  she  exclaimed,  suddenly,  fearing  that  her  simpli- 
city and  candour  betrayed  too  much.  "  You  know  the  rest." 

"  Poor  little  thing !  dear  child  !"  he  said,  smoothing  her 
hair.  "  Do  you  then  love  me  thus  ?  and  are  you  unhappy  in 
this  parting?" 

She  was  silent,  with  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands. 

A  younger,  or  a  vainer  man,  or  one  less  in  love  than  he, 
might  have  interpreted  all  this.  But  a  great,  true,  love  is 
very  humble;  and  his  mind  was  possessed  by  the  conviction, 
that  the  boy  bloom  having  faded  from  his  face,  and  time  and 
thought  having  recorded  their  triumphs  thereon ;  that  being 
grave  and  care-encumbered,  the  heart  of  youth  could  no  more 
warm  to  him.  Forgetting,  how  manhood  had  ripened  within 
him,  and  how  his  soul  had  grown  great  all  those  years ! 

So  the  world's  great  man,  being  humble  in  the  presence  of 
this  young  girl,  counting  his  gifts  as  nought  beside  her  youth 
and  purity,  did  not  indulge  in  presumptuous  speculation  upon 
the  nature  of  her  attachment  for  him.  It  was  the  affection 
of  a  warm-hearted  child  for  its  protector — nothing  more. 


VIOLA   WON.  355 

As  if  girls  were  in  the  habit  of  loving  guardians  so  ! 

But  as  he  sat  there,  smoothing  her  soft  hair,  and  pondering 
upon  the  touching  tenderness  which  had  well  nigh  hetrayed 
her  unto  death,  the  old  desire  to  show  his  heart  to  her  seized 
him.  He  longed  to  show  to  this  gentle,  loving  child-woman, 
the  temptations  and  struggles  of  his  inner  life,  and  ask  her 
sympathy  and  pity.  Of  all  his  outer  life,  she  had  been  cog- 
nisant. She  had  been  the  confidant  of  his  ambition,  of  his 
intellect  in  its  throes,  and  its  triumphs.  She  had  seen  him 
in  his  strength,  and  did  him  reverence.  Should  he  bare  his 
weakness,  and  ask  compassion  ?  The  world  gave  reverence, 
and  it  palled ;  none  offered  pity,  and  for  this  he  was  athirst. 

And  why  should  he  not  speak?  Formerly  he  was  her 
guardian ;  but  from  the  obligations  of  that  office  she  had  re- 
leased him.  Then,  he  had  feared  to  destroy  the  repose  of  her 
home.  Now,  she  was  leaving  that  home  for  ever.  She  should 
understand  him  fully  before  she  left  him. 

So,  with  his  earnest  eloquence,  he  told  her  such  a  story  as 
women  seldom  hear.  Of  a  love  like  those  wondrous  flowers, 
that,  feeding  upon  air,  cover  the  rocky  barren  with  caressing 
tendrils  and  heaven-tinted  bloom.  So,  had  it  sprung  up  with- 
out root.  So,  had  it  dressed  desolation  with  beauty.  Hope 
withered  beside  it;  selfishness  found  no  sustenance;  while 
the  flower  that  asked  no  earthly  aliment,  bloomed  on. 

He  had  told  her  this,  ere  she  went  hence,  he  said,  that,  in 
the  future,  when  love  shining  in  her  heart  should  quicken  its 
sympathies,  she  might  better  understand  all  that  she  had  been 
to  him.  That,  when  the  world  offered  its  homage,  and  her 


356  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

ear  became  familiar  with  the  beseechings  of  passion,  she 
would  remember  with  wonder,  ana  compassion,  the  story  of  a 
worship  distant  and  reverential;  a  love  ministering  long  in 
silence. 

Unlike  that  imperious  love  against  which  she  had  rebelled, 
was  the  touching  hopelessness  of  this. 

While  those  mournful  accents  charmed  the  air,  closer,  closer 
to  his  side  she  nestled  like  a  bewildered  bird. 

Suddenly  he  threw  her  from  him,  and  leapt  to  his  feet. 

"  Stand  back,  oh  beautiful  temptation !"  he  cried,  with 
energy.  "  I  will  not  for  ever  subjugate  my  nature.  I  have 
saved  you  from  myself,  but,  by  the  might  of  manhood  within 
me !  I  cannot  bear  your  childish  caress  !  These  are  a  lover's 
arms,  I  warn  you !"  and  he  threw  them  abroad  with  wild 
emphasis. 

She  sprang  to  his  bosom  and  hid  her  face ;  and  those  strong 
arms  closed  upon  her,  holding  her  close  and  long ! 


. 

CONCLUSION.  357 


CHAPTER   XLVII. 

CONCLUSION. 

WHEN  the  man-phantom,  as  the  irreverent  old  Captain  per- 
sisted in  stigmatizing  Viola's  uncle — when  the  man-phantom 
came,  to  escort  his  niece  and  her  convalescent  brother  to  his 
home,  Walsingham  (oblivious  of  his  former  claims,  and  intent 
only  upon  pressing  more  recent  ones)  approached  him  as  a 
suitor,  and  demanded  his  niece  in  marriage. 

The  Spiritualist  looked  out  toward  the  sunset  in  silence, 
and  seemed  to  be  more  absorbed  in  deciphering  the  painted 
puzzles  of  the  western  sky,  than  in  giving  audience  to  Wal- 
singham. Perhaps,  pictured  in  those  tender  tints,  he  saw  a 
marriage  made  in  Heaven ;  for,  nodding  slowly  to  the  clouds, 
he  pronounced,  in  his  hollow  inner  voice,  "  So  be  it !  so  be 
it!" 

And  so  it  was.  After  i  brief  visit  to  the  home  of  her  uncle 
and  brother  (during  which  the  interest  of  the  former,  in  sub- 


358  EROS    AND    AKTE3.OS. 

lunary  things,  became  wonderfully  revived),  Viola  returned  to 
the  Eyrie,  its  mistress. 

Here  her  nature  continued  to  expand  and  grow,  to  mate  the 
moral  and  intellectual  greatness  of  Walsingham ;  and  here,  in 
her  womanly  weakness,  she  kept  strong  the  hope  and  faith  of 
the  heart  that  loved  her. 

Sorrows  reached  her,  but  a  manhood,  whose  attributes  were 
tried,  shared  them  with  her.  Her  path  lay  sometimes  in 
shadow,  but  a  firm  hand  grasped  her  trembling  one,  and 
strong  arms  lifted  her  to  light. 

The  next  event  of  importance  which  transpired,  was  the 
death  of  Judge  Conway,  whose  health  had  been  for  some  time 
declining.  The  union  of  Cola  and  Helen  was  postponed  for  a 
few  years,  until  he  should  achieve  a  place  among  men.  In 
his  efforts  toward  this,  Mr.  Irving  and  Walsingham  extended 
helping  hands ;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  having  youth,  love,  and 
hope,  the  pair  were  as  happy  as  birds  in  spring. 

It  will  surprise  our  friends,  no  doubt,  to  learn  that,  before 
their  marriage,  Howard  brought  a  bride  to  the  valley  of  the 
mountain  river.  A  nut-brown  maid,  whose  swarth  and  glowing 
beauty,  sometimes  grew  a  shade  darker  to  her  husband's 
thought,  when,  amid  June's  roses,  he  recalled  the  waving  of 
white  garments,  and  the  glistening  of  golden  tresses  in  the 
light  of  a  midsummer  moon. 

This  matrimonial  venture  was  thought  premature,  as  the 
young  husband  was  not  qualified  to  provide  his  wife  with 
bread.  But  Howard  was  ever  impatient  of  slow  results. 


CONCLUSION.  359 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Irving  invited  the  newly  married  pair  to 
make  their  home  with  them,  where  the  devoted  bride  incon- 
tinently addressed  herself  to  the  worship  of  all  who  were  con- 
nected with  that  superb  fellow  and  god-like  creature,  her 
husband.  In  the  goodness  of  her  heart  she  was  in  danger  of 
contracting  an  intimacy  with  the  beautiful  mistress  of  the 
Eyrie,  who  seemed  particularly  kind  and  attentive ;  but  the 
"god-like"  intimated  his  disapproval,  and  she  desisted,  like  a 
dutiful  woman  as  she  was  ! 

The  Captain  spent  much  time  in  training  dovelets  in  the 
eagle's  nest.  His  views  of  women,  and  consequently  of 
matrimony,  became  greatly  modified,  and,  I  am  told,  he  did 
seriously  incline  thereto.  But,  by  unfortunate  chance,  never 
meeting  with  a  lady  who  was  young  enough,  and  good  enough, 
and  pretty  enough,  who  would  have  him,  the  old  tar  sailed  to 
the  end  of  his  voyage  without  a  mate. 

We  have  a  husband  for  the  faithful  Mrs.  Grey  though,  and 
at  this  moment,  and  on  this  spot,  we  offer  the  apology  we  owe 
him.  Excuse  us,  Midas  Mitten,  that,  absorbed  in  the  senti- 
mentalities of  lovers,  we  have  forgotten  to  chronicle  how 
sharply  you  have  been  looking  after  the  main  chance.  How 
you  have  bought  lands,  and  cut  down  forests,  and  torn  out 
rocks,  and  built  mills',  and  laid  roads,  and,  by  various  devasta- 
ting devices,  improved  the  valley,  and  enriched  yourself. 

And  how,  becoming  enamoured  of  that  large  and  fertile 
island  which  Grey  lately  inherited  from  a  distant  kinsman, 
you  begged  the  confiding  dame  to  bestow  upon  -JDU,  herself,  and 


360  EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

her  possession ;  and  how,  Jim  Crow  having  just  then  yielded  up 
his  breath,  she  promoted  you  to  the  post  of  patient  listener, 
confidential  friend,  and  prime  pet,  and  addressed  herself  ever 
after  to  comforting  and  coddling  you,  for  which  you  were 
duly  grateful. 


THE  END. 


